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Gleanings 



VIRGINIA WAINWRIGHT 




Copyright N'L.i_9-ilA 

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Gleanings 

From the Writings of 

VIRGINIA WAINWRIGHT 

Written betiveen the ages oj 
7 and 17 

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GLEANINGS 

From the Writings of 

VIRGINIA WAINWRIGHT 

Written between the ages of 
7 and 17 



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A BOOK FOR OLD AND YOUNG 



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A Collection of Poems, Stories, Essays, 
Anecdotes, Descriptions, Etc. 



SMITHSONIAN PRESS 
BOSTON 



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Copyright 1920 

BY VIRGINIA WAINWRIGHT 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

Published September, 1920 



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NOV iU 1920 



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Dedicated to 

ALL THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE 

(The pine-woods, the sea, the hills, the trees covered 
with snow, the green things growing, the beautiful 
flowers of lovely colors exhaling delicate perfumes, 
the June wind, the sunsets, the reflections of silver 
birch-trees in the limpid water, the spray dashed high 
on the rugged rocks, the full moon shining on the water, 
and many other wonders bestowed upon Man.) 

By 

A LOVER OF NATURE 



Preface 



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One rainy afternoon, a short time ago, when I was hunting in 
the bottom of one of my trunks, filled with childhood's souvenirs 
and treasures, for the booklet of the words of some French songs, 
sung by Maggie Teyte (whom I have always admired as an in- 
terpreter of modern French vocal compositions), I happened to 
run across some of my literary effusions — many of which had 
appeared in past years in various papers — written when I had 
leisure moments in my younger days ; and the idea struck me that 
I might send them out among my friends. With the clippings 
and manuscripts I also found several encouraging letters from 
editors, strangers to me. One letter was from an editor in 
central Massachusetts, asking me to write for his paper, and to 
become a member of a Literary Club and also of a Press Asso- 
ciation. There were also some letters from interested strangers, 
who had read my newspaper articles, asking me to correspond 
with them. The clippings are reminders of the days of my 
youth, and as I read them on that rainy afternoon, they took me 
back to the happy hours spent with Nature. They made me 
exclaim to myself the words of a song, "Make me a child 
again, just for to-night !" I sometimes lose — perhaps you 
have done the same thing yourself — what I need most, in my 
trunks — put away so carefully that they are well-nigh unfindable, 
and then have to shuffle through the contents of the trunk in mad 
haste. I had finally to take everything out of the bottom of the 
trunk and make a systematic search before the Maggie Teyte 
booklet came to light. I looked over a high pile of my literary 
articles, and also came across the book of my poems, printed in 



1899. It would be hard to decide which find in the trunk (the 
French song booklet or my poems and stories) delighted me more. 
I send the contents of this book out, hoping that the poems, 
stories, etc. may afford a bit of pleasure, diversion or entertain- 
ment in your leisure moments. No attempt has been made to 
"cull simply the best" for the general reading public, but both 
prose and poetry have been left without revision except very 
slight changes, which a child of those years might naturally have 
made for herself. The arrangement of this collection is chrono- 
logical. As for the order — ^the verse comes first, then essays, 
anecdotes and descriptions, and last, short stories. For associa- 
tion's sake my favorite poems in this collection are "The Lily- 
Pond" (page 37), "The Musician" (p. 18), "September" (p. 39) 
and "Day Dreams" (p. 49). It was not Daisy Ashford who 
inspired me to bring out this book, as I should have had it pub- 
lished, even if "The Young Visiters" had never been written. 

This collection consists of only a few of my many literary com- 
positions, written between the ages of seven and seventeen. The 
poems, written at seven and eight years of age, were printed in 
book form in 1899. Many of the essays and descriptions in this 
book appeared in the " Boston Sunday Herald." Some of these 
poems, etc., were printed in "The New York Sunday Herald," 
"The York Transcript" (York Harbor, Maine), "The Boston 
Sunday Herald," "The Brookline Chronicle," "The North Shore 
Breeze," "The Junior League Bulletin" (New York), and "The 
Cape Ann Shore." There is also an unpublished collection of 
sixty-six love poems. Permission has been obtained from "The 
New York Sunday Herald" to reprint the following criticism and 
poems. Also permission has been granted by "The Boston Sunday 
Herald," "The Brookline Chronicle," "The North Shore Breeze," 
"The Junior League Bulletin" (New York), "The York Tran- 
script" (York Harbor, Maine), and "The Cape Ann Shore" to 
reprint the poems, etc., which have appeared in these papers. 



Excerpt from "New York Sunday Herald," December, 1899. 

A Poet at Seven. 

In dingy old Boston town lives Virginia Wainwright, a little 
girl of eight. When she was but seven years old she surprised 
her mother one day by writing a sweet little poem; and since 
then, every little while, another bit of verse has followed. Some 
of them she has set to music, picking out the air on the piano with 
one finger. Virginia can't exactly explain how she came to 
write poetry. A sweet fancy floats in her little head, and some- 
how it arranges itself into lines and verse and so finds its way to 
paper. When you are but a beginner in the art of making verse, 
think more about the subject than its garb. When you have be- 
come rich in poetic fancy, then it is well to take a pride in how 
you dress the children of your imagination. Virginia recently 
has had the honor of having her verses printed in a little pamphlet 
for circulation among her friends, and the following are excerpts 
from it. The editor vouches for the statement that not a word 
has been changed since their author wrote them down. 

Excerpt from "The Brookline Chronide," May, 1920. 

The following verses from the pen of Virginia Wainwright 
are excellent examples of modern short poems and deemed 
worthy of attention by readers of "The Chronicle." Miss Wain- 
wright shows considerable originality and great talent for this 
sort of writing. 



Virginia Wainwright, 
Brookline, Massachusetts. 



CONTENTS 



Page 

Poems 

Spring 13 

Summer 13 

August 13 

November 13 

Before a Storm 14 

Rain in April 14 

A Prayer 14 

The Snowdrop 14 

To Aunt Josephine IS 

To Uncle Russell IS 

To Uncle George IS 

The Rain IS 

The Snowflakes 16 

Easter Greeting to Mamma 16 

The Jointed Doll 17 

The Musician 18 

The Ocean 19 

To the Pirate Queen 20 

To You 21 

From Him to Her 21 

Song of the Rain 22 

To Hortense 22 

Christmas Carol 23 

The First Christmas 2S 

Winter's Coming 2S 

Eventide 26 

To Spring 26 

On the Sea 26 

Early Morning 26 

Spring is Coming 27 

Thoughts in Summer Time 27 

A September Scene 28 

The Close of Day 29 

Autumnal Reminiscences 30 

The Last Day of Summer 31 

Memories of August 32 

To the Sea 33 

Before the Game 34 

A Summer Reverie 36 

The Lily-Pond 37 

Spring's Awakening 38 

Love's Awakening 38 

September 39 
A Paraphrase of a Part of a Poem 

by Thomas Moore 40 

Nature Changeth Not 41 

Easter Greeting to Miss Bailey 42 

Only a Kiss 42 

He Strives to Forget the Past 43 

From Youth to Maid 43 

To His Lucile 44 

To His Valentine 4S 

In an Automobile 4S 

To His Rosa 46 

The Fluttering Heart 46 



To York Harbor 

Farewell 

To His Valentine, 

To 

Day Dreams 



Lily 



Page 
47 
47 
47 
48 
49 



Anecdotes, Short Essays, 
Descriptions, Etc. 

A Description of Alpine Scenery S3 

Christmas at the Farmhouse S3 

A Perfect Autumn Day 55 

A Rainy Day 55 

In a Gloomy Mood 56 
The Pleasantest Story I Read Last 

Summer 56 

Look Onward Toward Success! 58 

The Waifs' Christmas 58 
My Favorite Character in Fiction 59 
Ten Minutes Spent in the Woods 60 

A Spring Picture 61 

The York River at Sunset 62 

The Rose's Day 63 

Canoeing 63 

In "Cleopatra" 64 

My French Book 65 

"The Little Lame Prince" 66 

My Summer Home 66 
Rowing, One of My Favorite Sports 67 

My Room in Summer 68 

The Churchyard 69 

My Queerest Dream 69 

A Picturesque Garden 70 

What My City Needs Most 71 

A Scene in a Street Car 71 

A Dog's Presence of Mind 72 

Dared the "Boogie" 73 

When Sambo Forgot 74 

A Pencil Mania 74 

Bob and Bill 75 

A Red Necktie 76 

By Junior Prize 77 

One Study Period 77 

The Day I Lost My Balance 78 

Excerpts from My Diary 79 

Stories 

Gretel's Christmas 83 

The Skipper's Dream 85 

Self-Sacrifice 86 

A Leaf from a Diary 87 

Youth's Pleasures are Fleeting 90 

His Expensive Purchase 93 

When Eye Meets Eye 96 
Jack's Adventure at the Circus 

Parade 99 

What the New Year Brought 101 

Paloma 104 



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Poems 



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GLEANINGS 13 



Written at seven and eight years of age. 



Spring. 

Little Springtime, with all your birds and flowers, 
Come little Springtime, give us some showers. 

Little Springtime, with all your leaves so gay, 
Come into the woods and sing a merry lay. 



Summer. 

Springtime has flown, and Summer, dear Summer, is here. 

Oh, say, little flowers, say, do you hear? 

When Springtime is flown, then Summer is here. 

My dear little flowers, O, do not fear ! 



August. 

August is blooming with all her leaves. 
This is the time no birds hide in eaves ; 
Soon the bright colors will all fade away. 
Then all the leaves will go astray. 



November. 

Winter is coming, oh ! look at the trees ; 
When it is here, there are no leaves. 
Then there are no flowerets gay ; 
When it is coming they all go away. 



14 GLEANINGS 



Written at seven and eight years of age. 



Before a Storm. 

Leaves are gray and skies are brown, 
Little birds' nests fall around. 



Rain in April. 

Down come the showers, 
Up come the flowers. 
All the little daisies 
Wash their little faces. 



A Prayer. 

Do not fear, 

God is near, 

All thou dost. 

He does hear. 
He does hear you pray at night. 
And keeps you through the morning light. 



The Snowdrop. 

The snowdrop hides beneath the snow, 
And peeps out when the winds do blow. 
It hides its face in the dark, dark night, 
And comes out bright in the morning light. 



GLEANINGS 15 



Written at seven and eight years of age. 



To Aunt Josephine. 



My little Aunt so dear, 
I love with all my heart ! 
When I am here without her, 
I feel we're far apart. 



To Uncle Russell. 

The trees are shedding all their leaves, 
The birds are hiding in the eaves; 
For winter is beginning now. 
And snow is falling fast. 



To Uncle George (on his birthday). 

I brought you this flower 
To remember the day. 
I hope 'twill not shower. 
And so you'll be gay. 



The Rain. 

The rain falls fast, 

And blows the blast, 

The winds are coming hither; 

The north wind blows 

Its merry song, 

And brings the cold, cold weather. 



16 GLEANINGS 



Written ut eight years of age. 

The Snowflakes. 

Little snowflakes from the sky, 
Come down and around me fly. 
They ask the Father from above 
Whence they come and why they rove. 
They ask Him too when 'twill be fair. 
And make the sweetest, kindest air. 
O, dear little flakes ! 
Do you come from the lakes 
Of the dark blue sky above ? 



Written at eleven years of age. 

Easter Greeting to Mamma. 

An Easter Greeting I send to you. 
Dearest of Mothers, that is you. 
Hoping you're well and bright and gay, 
Just like pretty, gladsome May. 

I have no plant to oflfer you. 
Nor even an egg of robin's blue. 
But take my love, and that will do, 
Dearest of Mothers, that is you. 



GLEANINGS 17 



Written at twelve years of age. 



The Jointed Doll. 

I'm only a jointed doll, 
With arms and legs that can move, 
But I can walk and tumble and roll. 
When I'm allowed to stroll and rove. 

Three years I was kept by a man, 

In his pocket to repose, 

I stayed there till my color ran. 

Then he took me out, — and what d'you s'pose? 

He gave me to a little girl. 

Whose hair was light and full of curl. 

Gracious ! she treated me badly too. 

She dropped me till I was black and blue. 

I think I should have better treatment (don't you?), 

Though I am only a jointed doll. 



18 GLEANINGS 



Written at twelve years of age. 



The Musician. 

He was not of the earthly day, 
His mother, Nature, worked a day; 
At eventide she fled away — 
His maker, 

'Twas Music found him swift and fleet, 
She knelt with fervor at his feet, 
And oft on Idus did she meet — 
Her lover. 

They walked together arm in arm. 
Communing mid the evening balm. 
She, guarding him from earthly harm — 
His helper. 



GLEANINGS 19 



Written at twelve years of age. 



The Ocean. 

Great are the perils of the ocean, 
And wondrous the depths of the deep. 
Oh, swift as rotating earth's motion, 
Great rivers into it leap. 

Many and strong are the ships on the sea, 

But when winds roar loudly and high waves dash, 

Not all can brave thy storms, O, sea! 

When the clouds roll o'er in a lightning's flash. 

Then art thou stronger than an hundred men. 
Thou batter' st the ship and sunder'st the mast; 
Into thee, more fierce than a lion's den. 
The crew is swept, though they all cling fast. 

And some who are out on the raging sea, 
Being tossed about by the angry wave, 
Think of their homes by the silent lea. 
And wonder the fate of their parents brave. 



20 GLEANINGS 



Written at thirteen years of age. 

To THE Pirate Queen. 

(Six boys and one girl playing pirates.) 

I'm out on the ocean deep, 

I sail on it far and near, 

I wouldn't go to sleep 

When the Pirate Queen is here. 

I love her all the day, 

I love her all the night, 

I love to hear them say; 

"The Pirate Queen's all right!" 

We're pirates six to the mark, 
But one dear Queen have we, 
We're out, we're out in our bark. 
We're out on the deep blue sea. 

Hurrah! there's none like her. 
Hurrah ! for the Pirate Queen. 
Hurrah! for the watery "fleur." 
She's ours, the Pirate Queen. 



9 
GLEANINGS 21 



Written at thirteen years of age. 

To You. 

{Supposedly from one of the Pirate Boys.) 

When the air is stifling hot, 
When the water's roar is loud, 
When the Pirate Queen's there or not. 
When the sky has a dark, dark cloud, 
I think of you. 

When the breeze is blowing cool, 

When the waters whisper low, 

When down by a shady pool, 

When the sky's bright with sunset glow, 

I think of you. 

Written at thirteen years of age. 

From Him to Her. 

I love thee much, 
My heart is thine, 
I think of thee, 
Wilt thou be mine? 

When thou art far, 
My thoughts are there, 
They're ever with 
My lady fair. 



22 GLEANINGS 



Written at twelve years of age. 

Song of the Rain. 

Patter, patter comes the rain, 
Knocks against the window pane. 
Patter, patter in the street. 
Like so many httle feet. 

Patter, patter, see it pour! 
Down it comes still more and more. 
Patter, patter, look ! O, look ! 
Down it comes in brook and nook. 

Patter, patter, welcome rain, 
Do you know how much we gain? 
Patter, patter, buds will swell. 
That is why we love you well. 

Written at twelve years of age. 

To HORTENSE. 

(From a young boy, to an older woman.) 

I love you, dear, with all my heart, 
O, Hortense! take my longing part, 
And be my wife forever more. 
To read me tales of fairy lore. 

The fields are green, and we did see 
The new-born spring come joyfully. 
Now see the summer trips along. 
O, be my wife with merry song ! 



GLEANINGS 23 



The scene is now in winter cold. 
When all the trees are bare and old; 
A little babe is born to you, 
To give you joy that n'er you knew. 

Think of the future, cold and bare, 
A threadbare cloak so scant doth she wear 
That feet are cold and hands grow thin — 
With many, lonely, has this been. 

Put in your mind a better thought, 
Of joys by our marriage wrought. 
And see thy children by thy knee, 
And husband near to comfort thee. 

All this will be, if you will do 
The one sole thing I ask of you ; 
Just say, "I love you, dear," then all 
Will, just as I have told, befall. 



Written at twelve years of age. 



Christmas Carol. 

Ring, ye bells, good news proclaiming, 
On this gladsome Christmas morn. 
Telling of the birth of Jesus, 
In a lowly stable born. 

Lay he on a kingly bedstead, 

In a palace built of gold. 

With his servants round about him, 

And a fire to keep from cold? 



24 GLEANINGS 



Nay, the Christ Child on a manger, 
In a stable lowly, poor. 
Lay surrounded by the cattle. 
And his father at the door. 

On a lonely hillside watching, 
Tending flocks, sat shepherds near, 
When an angel came from Heaven, 
'Round whom shone a bright light clear. 

"Fear not," said the Godly messenger, 
"For good tidings do I bring; 
"To you in Bethlehem, Judea, 
"To you tonight is born a King." 

"Leave your flocks and all your people, 
"Go to Christ your given Lord; 
"You will find him in a manger.'* 
And back to Heaven the angel soared. 

Three wise men, living in the East, 
Saw a wondrous star that night. 
And all the other stars about it. 
It surpassed in brilliant light. 

Gifts of myrrh, and gold and incense, 
These three men to Christ did bring. 
And their hearts were filled with joy 
At the sight of their dear King. 

Let us then, like shepherds and wise men, 

Not alone by stars to roam. 

But by faith also, led onward. 

Be brought at last to our Lord's Home. 



GLEANINGS 25 



Written at twelve years of age. 



The First Christmas. 

Far away in the midnight clear. 
There dawned a shining star so mild. 
And people came from far and near 
To bless a lovely heavenly Child. 

Three shepherds sitting on the ground, 
Around a slowly hovering flock ; 
They, too, the shining star had found. 
And an angel at their hearts did knock. 

And, following that star so mild. 
Their hearts as presents did they bring; 
They came to bless the Heavenly Child, 
And gave them to their Lord and King. 



Written at twelve years of age. 



Winter's Coming. 

Cattle on the hillside grazing, 
Sheep and fowl in pastures low. 
When the winds of autumn leaving. 
Bring the winter's ice and snow. 

Winter, I pray thee, fly away. 

Bring in the happy joyous May, 

No more thy icy fing'r feel. 

Shall we, like the wintry, northern seal. 



26 GLEANINGS 



Written at twelve years of age. 



EvENTroE. 

The evening shadows darken. 
The day of work is done. 
No birds to which to harken. 
To nests they've flown each one. 



To Spring, 

The morning dawns with rosy light, 
The birds are singing, fleet of wing, 
And all around are faces bright. 
The sun awakes and brings the Spring. 



On the Sea. 

We are out on the raging ocean. 
With the foam dashed up at our feet, 
And, rocked by the ship's reeling motion, 
I'm unable to keep my seat. 



Early Morning. 
The sun is out, and the birds 
Their little wings unfurl, 
With joy that they do live. 
God doth their joy give. 



GLEANINGS 27 



Written at twelve years of age. 



Spring is Coming. 

The winter now goeth fast. 
And the cold winds shall not last; 
Don't you hear a voice in your ear, 
Telling you that spring is near? 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



Thoughts in Summer Time. 

How weeps the tender willow by the pool ! 
How croaks the lazy frog from out the ferns ! 
How waves the slender grass in breezes cool! 
How flows the languid river in its turns ! 

The bridge of birch across the shallow pond. 
The road which leads through many a leafy bower. 
The distant site with marshy fields beyond. 
The river banks so gay with blue sedge-flower. 

What thoughts at all these beauties spring to life, 
As long I gaze upon that distant scene, 
"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife!" 
What feelings as I watch that landscape green! 

Would that I might pour out this heart so sore, 

And think, my friend — in rest and quiet roam! — 

But no, this glimpse alone of peaceful shore. 

On must man go, with struggling strife, toward Home. 



28 GLEANINGS 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



A September Scene. 

'Tis a day in mid September, 
Indian Summer has begun, 
The trees are bright in Autumn raiment, 
The water sparkles in the sun. 

The birds from tree to tree fly calling. 
The cows beside the babbling brook, 
The violets in the swamps and marshes, 
Give to Fall a summer look. 

Along the rippling, sparkling river, 
Drifting comes a green canoe, 
Only two are in its hollow; 
In it is but room for two. 

In the bottom sits a maiden, 
Fair and sweet to look upon; 
In the stern is her admirer. 
Paddling ever and anon. 

Youthful innocence, pride and joy, 
Beam in her sweet downcast eyes. 
While her wealth of hair unbound, 
Soft and light around her lies. 

The youth is tall, and straight and manly, 
Love and knowledge from his eyes shine. 
His face is handsome, kind and gentle, 
His features clearly cut and fine. 



GLEANINGS 29 



Dark his brow, and stern his feature, 
When sorrow causes pain and care; 
But now a smile serene and loving 
Is seen, as he gazes at the maiden fair. 

Thus through life's dark perilous journey 
Shall they drift, he protecting e'er, 
Ever a smile shall shine through sorrow, 
When he is with the maiden fair. 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



The Close of Day. 

The sultry August day at eve is o'er, 

The shadows lengthen. 'Long the dusty road 

The sheep come homeward driven. Now once more 

The church-bells ring. I walk toward my abode. 

Along the landscape stand the trees of pine. 
Outlined as travelers 'long the road of fate, 
The twilight darkens. See the horizon-line 
Is reddened by the setting sun so late. 

As homeward 'long the dusty lane I wend 

My way, a feeling comes into my heart. 

The hour, the place, my heart-strings seem to rend. 

O, why! O, why! my friend, did we e'er part? 



30 GLEANINGS 



The glorious sun is sinking 'neath the trees, 
The sunset glow's suffused across the sky, 
The sultry air's refreshed by evening breeze. 
Another day has passed, and night is nigh. 

The lane is reached, that leads unto the house. 
That lane made sacred, trodden by thy feet ; 
As up the steep hill, feelings in me rouse 
The thought it was last here that we did meet. 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



Autumnal Reminiscences. 

Far, far across the lonely marshes, 
Wails and moans the autumn wind, 
Down the steep nocturnal pathway 
Comes dark Sleep, with tread so kind. 

Why, O, why! these visions dreary? 
Why these sighs and wailing verses? 
Whence the thoughts that haunt the memory, 
Where the Past its scene rehearses? 

Speak, O, speak ! ye thoughts that slumber. 
Hidden deep within the breast. 
Wake, O, wake! and leave thy dreaming; 
Wake, awake from silent rest. 



GLEANINGS 31 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



The Last Day of Summer. 

I stood upon the beach so lonely, 

None were there save Nature and L 

The wind of autumn blew cold and chilly. 

The waves dashed. Above was the blue, blue sky. 

Before me lay the mighty ocean. 
White caps skipped its surface o'er. 
Little sail boats, skiffs and dories. 
Being tossed by the restless waves, I saw. 

What is there in the deep blue ocean 
That calls us e'er unto its breast, 
To cast our grief and woe to seaward, 
To come into its arms and rest? 

My heart that day was sad and restless. 
My thoughts were distant many a mile, 
I came unto the wondrous ocean. 
Seeking one gone, as Cleopatra of the Nile. 

But unlike that mighty sorceress, 
I knew my Antony could not come; 
No news from him a black slave bringing. 
Could tell me he was safe at Rome. 

Though my thoughts were with my loved one, 
Could they bring him unto me? 
The sea rolls onward — homeward turning, 
I sighed, "Alas! It cannot be." 



32 GLEANINGS 



Written at fourteen years of age. 

Memories of August. 

(Verses written while looking at a picture of 
sail-boats.) 

How this picture here before me 
Takes me back to summer time, 
Time when all are gay and happy, 
Time of laughter, and of rhyme. 

See the water gleam and sparkle, 
See the sunshine flooding all. 
See the sail-boats skimming blithely ; 
Is it August or in fall? 

August, August, time of pleasure, 
Of sailing, paddling, then at York. 
I think again I see thee, river. 
See thee, watch thee, hear thee talk. 

Perhaps no more shall merry August 
Bring such happiness to me. 
Who knows that fate may, intervening, 
Part, e'er sever, me and thee. 

Sail-boats, sail-boats, lightly sailing. 

Why is it that thou hauntest me 

With thoughts of hours spent on that river, 

That perchance in future may not be? 

August, seashore, how I love thee. 
How I wish 'twere summer-time, 
August, August, time for pleasure, 
Time for happiness and rhyme. 



GLEANINGS 33 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



To THE Sea. 

Break, o, sea! break, 

On the cold, bleak shore of Maine. 

Winter, winter's here. 

Come not snow and rain! 

The winter's tardy sun 
Has risen hours before. 
But still its scanty rays 
Heat not the cold York shore. 

Oh! would that I were there, 
To see the high waves break, 
The foam scatter and dash. 
The white caps in thy wake. 

O, ocean! roll and roll! 

O, waves ! e'er roar and roar 1 

I think of thee forever, 

As I stand on the cold bleak shore. 

I think of the days in summer. 
When the waters of ocean pause, 
H ever that mighty body 
Quiets its dashes and roars. 

Then the sun on the sparkling water, 
Shone with its heating rays, 
'Twas August, August then, 
Happiest, merriest days. 



34 GLEANINGS 



When the storms in winter rage, 
When the thunder shakes the earth, 
When the waves dash high on the rocks. 
When the sea-gulls shout with mirth; 

Then my thoughts go back 
To the time, the time now o'er, 
The happy summers spent 
With thee on the fair York shore. 



Written ait fourteen years of age. 



Before the Game. 

{A Harvard and Yale Football Game in the Cambridge 
Stadium.) 

The day is warm, the weather fine, 
Although November's sun its ray 
Casts upon the peaceful earth, 
To-day the hostile teams will play. 

From far and near the people flock 
To see the Crimson — Bull-Dog strife. 
To-day, to-day the game is fought 
For which shall victory be and life? 

For one the gloomy death awaits, 
Both cannot win, though both may strive. 
Which shall the fiery master be? 
For which is death? Which is alive? 



GLEANINGS 35 



The massive Stadium lifts its face. 
One mass of banners red and blue, 
The band rings out in brazen voice 
Airs of Crimson, songs of Blue. 

"Fair Harvard," How those words re-echo, 

How that tune is carried far, 

To many lands, and many nations 

"Fair Harvard" 's wafted. 'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! 

On the gridiron come the elevens, 
"Harvard, Harvard!" comes the cry. 
"Harvard, Harvard, play your strongest, 
"Win for Crimson, win or die!" 

From the Bull-Dog side comes cheering, 
Cheer on cheer soon fills the air. 
"Balaboo ! Eli can beat them ! 
"Victory, victory! hold them there." 

"Harvard, Harvard !" shout the coaches. 
"Harvard ever !" roars the team. 
And the name of Harvard echoes 
From mouth to mouth, and faces beam. 

The banners wave, the streamers fly, 
The coin flashes in the sun. 
'Tis Harvard's choice. O, Harvard ! win. 
The ball is kicked, the game's begun. 



36 GLEANINGS 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



A Summer Reverie. 

Once more 'tis summer, and once more I feel 
As though amid those pine-trees tall I stood. 
And heard the gentle whispering of the wind 
Among the branches of the sweet pine-wood. 

My heart was heavy, feverish was my soul. 
And all around me seemed to breathe one name. 
My heart throbbed. Every tiny blade and tree. 
Flower and leaf, they whispered all the same. 

I left the wood, I sought the open sea, 

"To sea, to sea!" my heart and feelings cried. 

Amid the trees I caught a glimpse of blue, 

To reach the shore my whole heart feelings tried. 

I see once more those ancient willows weeping. 
Beside the roaring sea by Godfrey's Cove. 
I stood and thought of thee, dear, o'er and o'er. 
Still weep the willows, weep beside the Cove. 



GLEANINGS 37 



Written at fifteen years of age. 



The Lily-Pond. 

The languid August afternoon drags on. 
'Tis warm, but as one nears the lily-pool. 
The breeze upon one's face e'er gently blows ; 
The lazy frog croaks on. 'Tis still and cool. 

How peaceful 'long the shaded pine-tree road, 
How fragrant are the flowers along the way; 
How dark and quiet beside the stagnant pond. 
Save for the sleepy frog and turtle grey. 

The sun's rays filtering through o'erhanging trees, 
Shine here and there upon the waters brown. 
Reflections of the quivering birches white 
Are on the surface, where their heads bow down. 

The lily-pads are scattered o'er the pond. 
With here and there a beauteous lily white. 
That hides its head among the dark green leaves, 
And in its chalice catches sunbeams bright. 

This pine-wood path, my friend, hast thou oft trod, 
With footsteps weary, gay, and sad, and light. 
Oh ! fain that Seabury days were back again. 
Oh! would those hours had not so swift ta'en flight. 



38 GLEANINGS 

Written at fifteen years of age. 

Spring's Awakening. . 

What meaneth this mystic sadness, 
That spreadeth o'er the mind. 
And tells us Spring's awakening, 
Like music on the wind? 

What is this magic longing? 
What makes us sad in Spring? 
The charm is not terrestrial. 
That maketh woodlands sing. 

The power is in the ocean, 
Each billow breaks in rhyme, 
Each songbird's throat is bursting 
With melody sublime. 

Ah ! leave this fleeting moment, 
Think on the power of God ! 
Each bird, each insect feels it. 
Each flower, each leaf, each sod. 

Written (M fifteen years of age. 

Love's Awakening. 

What meaneth this mystic sadness, 
That stretch eth for the soul 
Its path of melancholy, 
With sorrow for its goal? 

What is this magic longing? 
Whence cometh power of love? 
The charm is not terrestrial, 
But cometh from above. 



GLEANINGS 39 



Written at fifteen years of age. 



September. 

Autumn's hues are reddening, deepening, 
Skies are blue, but chill the wind. 
Summer's ended. Yon the sun sets 
Purple, orange, bleak, unkind. 

Far across the meadows lonely 
Sway the grasses lithe and long, 
Far the gulls fly screaming, calling. 
Frogs commence their nightly song. 

The sea still breaks with sounding music. 
High dash the waves on rock and shore. 
The evening colors fade, and slowly 
Sets the bright sun. — Light no more. 

Now 'tis dark, the shadows deepen. 
High above the resounding sea. 
The full moon rises, bright and golden. 
The harvest moon o'er wave and lea. 



40 GLEANINGS 



Written at fifteen years of age. 



A Paraphrase of a Part of a Poem by Thomas Moore. 

Was it the lark, or was it daybreak's call, 

That bid thee, dearest, leave these arms, leave all? 

I lingered yet, though thou had'st gone away, 

In murmuring rest of soul till morning's ray. 

Thy parting sigh hung faintly on my breath. 

Thy name in whispers o'er my tongue met death, 

I heard thy 'cello, left by thee behind. 

In converse with the breezes, blowing kind ; 

Fast to my heart I pressed the fatal flower, 

And with the lips, warm, brought from Cupid's bower, 

Straight I kissed each petal with delight. 

Which flower had gained favor in thy sight ; 

I touched thy lyre, shed o'er each chord a kiss. 
Which told such songs, such notes of fervent bliss, 
As none but consonances sweet, that felt 
The dew of kisses, dear as ours, have dealt. 
O, love ! how happy is the soothing rest. 
That follows close upon such raptures blest. 
Like a cool twilight shed upon the mind, 
The traces of a transport left behind. 

Thou know'st, loved one, our clouded skies beyond. 
The spirit's kingdom lies, without a bond, 
A sea of ether rolls through that fair clime, 
Where hallowed souls, in islands bright with thyme. 
Garnished and blest, worn by life's toilsome race. 
Recumbent, rest in love's most fond embrace. 



GLEANINGS 41 



The solitary orb so soft, so sweet. 

That guides thee often our two hearts to meet. 

Is no pale planet, but an island blest. 

Floating upon those seas of love and rest ! 

I thought we two our way up yonder winged. 

While day's clear light streamed, and brooklets ringed, 

And all around on lily beds of love, 

Beyond the Blessed Spirits sent above. 

And there once more some girlish friends I met. 

Whom I had loved, whom tears of joy had wet. 

O, Sage of Samia! whate'er thy thought may be 
Of numbers mystic, wrought alone to see, 
The One formed from the Two, who love most dear, 
Is Heaven's best number, the best upon Earth here. 



Written at fifteen years of age. 



Nature Changeth Not. 

The mighty ocean rolls e'er on its way. 
The birds still sing, the flowers bloom and fade. 
Meadows are white, then sweet with new mown hay. 
But he's unkind ; yet man by God was made. 

The hills still rise, and praise their Heavenly Giver, 
Valleys are fresh and green. The sportive deer 
And roe still bound, then rest beside the river. 
The sun shines on ; but he is insincere. 



42 GLEANINGS 

Written at fifteen years of age. 

Easter Greeting to Miss Bailey. 

An Easter greeting we send to you, 
Dear Miss Bailey, our friend so true. 
May many joys His hand bestow 
Upon your head, and ne'er a woe 
To mar the days of early Spring, 
That birds and blossoms to you bring. 

Written at fifteen years of age. 

Only a Kiss. 

They stop, they linger a moment, 
Beneath the forest trees ; 
Sweetly he kisses her forehead. 
Swiftly that moment flees. 

One feels the power of living. 
His first kiss come and gone. 
For once in Life's weary toil, 
One is glad that one was born. 

But stay, it was not in the forest, 
'Twas only a sofa green, 
'Twas only a kiss he gave her. 
But much did that first kiss mean. 

Ah ! woe that 'twas ever given. 
Its cause was true love and joy; 
But many a pang has it brought 
To her from a debonair boy. 



GLEANINGS 43 



Written at fifteen years of age. 

He Strives to Forget the Past, 

Could'st thou not then my pains defy? 
Why bleeds a heart for what is past? 
Let the dead past its dead inter 
And leave me lonely till the last. 

Wake from thy sleep, O, slumbrous one! 
Why dost thou sleep when morn is here? 
Live in the present, live and strive 
To be, to do ! Thy goal is near. 

Leave the poor heart you once ensnared. 
Why bleeds a heart for what is past ? 
Let the dead past its dead inter. 
And leave me lonely till the last. 



Written at fifteen years of age. 

From Youth to Maid. 

(In a Pensive Mood.) 

Why does my heart e'er pain me so? 
Gone is true gladness, indifference, joy. 
Love at my heart-strings tugs and pulls. 
All this comes to me, a careless boy. 

Love, ah ! first love is hard to bear. 
But slighted love is harder still ; 
Why does a heart persist to care 
For her, who broke it with iron will ? 



44 GLEANINGS 



Why does she then inflict these pains? 
Why is she worth these thoughts, this woe? 
She cannot love, she has no heart. 
She cannot feel, she cannot know. 

Too much I've done for this loved one. 
Too often thought, too often cared. 
They say that love and death are sweet; 
Oh ! would that my poor heart were spared. 



Written at fifteen years of age. 



To His Lucile. 

Dear Lucile, my friend, I am lonely, 
Lonely and longing for thee; 
The days and the hours seem longer 
Than those which you spent with me. 

Why do the fields seem so empty? 
Why do the birds sing no more? 
Ah! why does the sea roll in discords? 
Why is my heart sad and sore ? 

Come back to your friend, who is waiting. 
Perhaps he will not wait fore'er; 
He might find another and truer, 
But never for other he'd care. 



GLEANINGS 45 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



To His Valentine. 

Good luck to you, who never knew. 

How I have suffered night and day, 

With pangs of love, Devotion's slave. 

And ne'er shall know how oft I say : 

"Lucile, Lucile, I think of thee, 

"You never, dear, have left my mind, 

"I might try and try the whole world o'er, 

"But ne'er your equal could I find." 



Written at fifteen years of age. 



In an Automobile. 

What joy to speed o'er hill and dale, 
What bliss to be alone with thee. 
My heart is light with joy undreamed, 
Away, afar, away we flee. 

The auto runs so smooth, so fast, 
So fleet we speed on country road ! 
My heart is light, my joy supreme, 
There's lifted from my soul a load. 



46 GLEANINGS 

Written at fifteen years of age. 

To His Rosa. 

Why does my heart with passion burn? 
Why does my grief to joy turn? 
Perchance may I the reason learn, 
Perchance might I the affection earn — 
Of Rosa. 

With whom did I drift in a green canoe? 
Who was it spoke of "room -for two"? 
Who forced my soul to leap, O, who? 
To whom is my heart forever true ? 
To Rosa. 

Whose sweet soft whisper do I hear, 
That falls with rapture on my ear? 
Who is the girl, when far or near. 
Whose name to me is very dear? 
'Tis Rosa. 

O, handsome girl ! with merry eye, 
How dost thou make all sorrows fly? 
Who maketh flee each pang, each sigh ? 
Who is the friend I'll e'er stand by? 
'Tis Rosa. 

Written at fifteen years of age. 

The Fluttering Heart. 

My heart in its prison bars 
Flutters, a flight to take. 
Its cry is from near and far, 
"Awake, awake, awake!" 



GLEANINGS 47 



Fly to thy own true love, red heart, 

He's waiting ever nigh. 

Come! fly away like the white, white dove, 

Away to the blue, blue sky. 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



To York Harbor. 

My dearest York is a place 
Where there is many a face 
That I dearly, dearly love ; 
I really do. 

And there are many there; 
To have naught to do is rare. 
Oh! hip! hip! hurrah! 
My dearest York. 

Written at fifteen years of age. 

Farewell. 

If hate you feel toward me, then be it so. 

To others then go give your soul and heart. 

Let not your friends know of my grief and woe. 

Be loved by them. Farewell then, we must part. 

Written at fourteen years of age. 

To His Valentine, Lily. 

O, fairest ! how my heart doth pine. 
For Lily ! Say, dear, thou art mine, 
O, say, dear one! "Fm thine, I'm thine." 
Then Lily, be my valentine. 



48 GLEANINGS 



I know full well I should not send 
To you this missive of my love, 
But Cupid will his wings e'er lend, 
Bear this to thee, swift as a dove. 

For truly Cupid's pricked my heart, 
With arrows known full well to me ; 
Thou know'st not that whene'er we part, 
My thoughts, my thoughts, but run on thee. 



Written at fifteen years of age. 



To 



My heart all night with grief was torn, 
I could not sleep till early morn. 
Since all is o'er, why graspest thou 
That hand with fervour, hated now? 

I tried to be your honest friend, 

When love, you said, made your heart rend. 

I did what in my power lay, 

To ease your heart, to make you gay. 

Why art thou morbid, sullen, base. 
To eyes that cherished thy dear face? 
Speak not to me in accents low, 
If thou wilt have it, be it so ! 

What scrapes, pray, have I on thee brought? 
My love could not have injury wrought. 
Why chide one, faultless, for a blame, 
To have hers coupled with thy name? 



GLEANINGS 49 



Too dear, you think, that love was bought, 
You knew not then how much you sought. 
You loved her, could not live an hour. 
Without messages from Cupid's bower. 

How fair a rival have I now? 
Sweet Psyche's hair and noble brow 
Shall earn love-sighs which gently sent, 
I often heard with ears intent. 

Written at sixteen years of age. 

Day Dreams. 

'Tis close of day, the sun with glory sets. 

And purple all the distant landscape frets. 

The breeze of evening coolly, gently blows, 

With fleeting flight the fluid river flows. 

Night's heralds, shepherds, herdsmen, trumpets sound, 

The silent songsters sleep secure around. 

The hour, the place, earth's many cares dispel, 

And rouse the thoughts on which our memories dwell. 

We hope, we stretch our pinioned wings above, • 

To soar to higher levels that we love, 

And leave the common narrow world below. 

To float aloft in our own heaven's glow. 

The battlements and towers majestic rise, 

And robed in splendour, touch the sun-set skies. 

What castles, oh! what castles do we build! 

What futures we unfold, with gladness filled! 

In vain we long and hope, in vain we strive. 

The twilight deepens, and dark shades arrive. 

Night's darkness reigns, the tottering castles gleam; 

'Twas but a hope, a wish, an idle dream. 



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Anecdotes, Short Essays, 
Descriptions^ Etc. 

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GLEANINGS S3 



Written at eleven years of age. 



A Description of Alpine Scenery. 

As I look out of the window of a little mountain cottage I see 
the snow-capped mountains in the distance. In front of the 
cottage is a little pool of water, where the cows wade knee-deep 
in the summer. It is now frozen over with a thick layer of ice. 
All around at the left and right the ground is covered with 
glistening snow. As I stand, looking out of the window, the 
sky is illuminated by a gorgeous sunset. Pink and purple around 
it, the brilliant golden sun sinks to rest, after its day's work. 



Written at eleven years of age. 



Christmas at the Farmhouse. 

The sun was setting behind the little gray farmhouse as a man 
hurried up the pathway. It was very cold and he shivered as 
he pulled his scanty cloak tighter around him. He saw before 
him his old home, where his happy childhood had been spent. 
The little house, with its sloping roof and the old fashioned chim- 
ney, out of which curled a wreath of smoke, seemed to beckon to 
him to come and rest inside its walls. On one side of the house 
was the bam, where he used to have so much fun romping and 
playing circus in the sweet-smelling hay of the lofts. On the other 
side was a weeping-willow, whose branches rocked and swayed in 
the wind. The place was very different now from what it was in 
summer. No beautiful climbing roses, surrounding the old- 
fashioned door, sent out their delicious perfumes. No hens nor 



54 GLEANINGS 



chickens ran hither and thither, clucking, and looking for worms. 
The sun's rays were reflected on the window panes and glistened 
on the snow-covered ground. The man came up to the house, 
and, after stamping the snow from his feet, he opened the door 
and entered. Through the hall he went, until he came to the 
room, which served both as dining-room and sitting-room. He 
stopped on the threshold to enjoy the scene before him. The 
low-ceilinged room looked very cozy and inviting after the cold 
outside. In the open fire-place burned a low fire, whose rays 
flickering on the wall formed many odd, fantastical shapes. 
Around the hearth the family was gathered. On one side sat his 
aged mother, gray and decrepit, knitting some stockings with 
those dear hands that never ceased doing good, while on the 
other side his father was seated, with his head resting on his 
hands, gazing fixedly at the fire. Three children with eager faces, 
anxiously awaiting the tree their mother and father were prepar- 
ing for them in the kitchen, sat on a rug before the hearth. 

At the sight of the long absent member of the family there was 
a great deal of kissing and rejoicing that he was home again. 
They had expected him for many years, but, each Christmas when 
he did not come, they felt that their waiting was all in vain. The 
man sat down and told his adventures of the past years. Then 
they went into the warm kitchen, where they had a beautiful 
Christmas tree and everyone was happy. After the man had gone 
to bed, he thought of all the Christmases he had spent away from 
home, and the contrast of Christmas in the bustling, crowding 
city and the peaceful serene Christmas at the little gray farm- 
house in the country. 



GLEANINGS 55 



Written at twelve years of age. 



A Perfect Autumn Day. 

What a perfect day ! The air is warm, yet with a feeling of 
autumn crispness. Each breath of wind, swaying the trees, shakes 
down a few more brown leaves. At each step we crumple those 
leaves that but a few weeks previous were golden, red and purple. 
The trees are shedding their garments to prepare for the winter's 
sleep. The sparkling water is the reflection of Heaven's smiles 
to gladden the sinful earth. Underneath the dead leaves lie hid- 
den chestnuts, forgotten or unknown. The trees, now almost 
bare, shake in the wind as if sighing for their green leaves, that 
come only after patient wintry waiting. Then how glad they will 
be of their spring raiments of green. The grass is turning brown. 
The little ant is putting in his winter store, and the few birds, 
that have not yet migrated to the south, sing from the almost 
bare tree-tops. The crows' caws often grate on the ear as they 
fly southward over the tree-tops. Winter will soon be with us. 



Written at twelve years of age. 



A Rainy Day. 

The rain is coming down in torrents. It patters on the street 
and the roof like little feet. It comes against the windows and 
runs down in little streamlets. It falls on the dusty grass, and 
refreshes it. The flowers hold up their tiny heads and receive 
water in their little cups. The rain falls on the trees, and the 
raindrops look like drops of dew on a spider's web. 



56 GLEANINGS 



Written at twelve years of age. 



In a Gloomy Mood. 

As I look back upon the pine-tree of my life, only a few of its 
many branches stand forth in my mind, sway gently, and whis- 
pering sweet music are lulled back and forth by the summery 

wind and breeze of happiness and joy. All the rest, dark, 

grim and foreboding, rock and bend under the wintry blast, that 
chill, cold wind of sadness and despair. Take heart ; even the ant 
has its lot (though lowly). Look on the earth with all its beauties 
given to man. Be not sad and morbid. 



Written at twelve years of age. 



The Pleasantest Story I Read Last Summer. 

"The Story of King Arthur and His Knights," by Howard 
Pyle, will ever remain as a fresh green spot in my memory when 
all other books shall have faded. Each month when the maga- 
zine, in which it came out in serial form, arrived, I hastily tore 
off the wrapper, and turned to the pleasantest story I read last 
summer. I was fascinated by the old English, and almost held my 
breath with delight as I read of the exciting events of King 
Arthur's boyhood, knighthood, and kinghood. The story also 
tells of the numerous adventures that befell the knights of his 
Round-Table, 

The story which I liked most was about Sir Percival. Percival, 
when a boy, was kept with his mother in a dark, dreary tower, in 
a gloomy forest, by his father, who was full of fear lest his wife 



GLEANINGS 57 



and son be killed by his enemies. Percival knew nothing of fight- 
ing, of damsels, or of love, neither had he ever seen any human 
beings, except his mother and servants ; nor did his mother wish 
him to, for she was afraid he would go out into the wide, wide 
world, and leave her far behind. Once, however, Percival saw 
some knights in armor, and, running to his mother, he asked her 
what they were. After many questions, she could hold it from 
him no longer, and told him of the great world, and all its good 
and evil. Percival, with his mother's consent, went out into the 
forest, and, after cutting some osier twigs, tried to imitate the 
armor, which he had seen on the knights. He then put it on, and, 
after taking leave of his mother, went out into the world. 
Through the forest he went, over streams he crossed, till at length 
he reached an open field, where he perceived a pavilion of bril- 
liant colors. He entered therein, and beheld before him the most 
beautiful damsel mortal eyes have ever seen. Percival fell in love 
with her, and wished to ask her hand in marriage, but did not 
think he was worthy of her yet, so he told the damsel he would 
go out and fight twenty-two battles, and then would come back 
and wed her. Percival went away from his love after she had 
given him a ring. After many wounds and much pain and labor, 
Percival at last accomplished his victories in the space of two 
years. He went to the castle, where the damsel abode, and, enter- 
ing the huge hall, stood before her father. Percival asked for his 
love's hand in marriage, and her father led him to the top of the 
tower, and opened a door. On a couch lay his beloved, but she 
moved not, neither did she speak; her hands and face were like 
unto ivory for whiteness. Percival knew that she was dead. He 
approached the couch, and, gently lifting up the hand by her side, 
Percival slipped onto her finger the ring that she had given him. 
Thus Percival married his beloved in death. He found solace in 
becoming one of the most famous knights of King Arthur's 
Round Table. 



58 GLEANINGS 



Written at twelve years of age. 



Look Onward Toward Success! 

O, Man! why look on the sad side of life? There is work to 
be done. Let us get at it. Why spend this time in mourning and 
weeping? Up! up! Fling out the banner of earnestness! Put 
on the robe of work, of things worth while. Leave this despair 
and look up on all around us. Perchance we may not be here 
tomorrow. Think on today and see that we leave not those 
things undone which should be done today thinking, "That can 
be done tomorrow." 

There is a race to be run, O, Mortal ! Perchance you may be 
impeded with grievous heavy armor while others by your side run 
laughing by with bare feet and light clothing. But, look ! onward 
is the goal. Nearer and nearer it seems as you plod on your way. 
Mark! keep your eye on that goal. Heed not the passers by. 
There is a prize to win, a prize for great and small. 



Written at twelve years of age. 



The Waifs' Christmas. 

It was a cold Christmas Eve. From the great corner mansion 
could be heard little voices, singing Christmas carols. It was very 
merry inside, there was a Christmas tree, and every one was 
having a good time. But outside it was very different. Two 
little waifs were beating their hands against their chests to keep 
warm. They stamped their feet in the snow. After everyone had 
gone to bed the children still kept on singing. They would not 



GLEANINGS 59 



stop, for at home they had a poor sick mother. They were so 
poor that they could not have a doctor or even buy any medicine. 
Indeed, the little boys had long ago sold their jack-knives (the 
only presents left from their dear father who was dead) to buy 
some medicine. The mistress of the house heard the little waifs 
singing after everything was silent, and she said to herself, "I 
must give something to those little ones," so she roused a servant 
and told her to go out and tell the children to come in and warm 
themselves. They came in gladly and told their sad story to the 
kind lady, who gave them some money, and told them to come 
back the next day. They returned on Christmas Day, and the 
rich children gave them many pretty gifts. The kind lady sent a 
doctor to the waifs' sick mother and soon she was well enough 
to work again. 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



My Favorite Character in Fiction. 

I am sitting under the shade of a pine-tree in a peaceful forest, 
my only companions being the birds, and the only sounds being 
their twittering and the babbling of a brook over its pebbles. 'Tis 
warm and sultry elsewhere — here in the forest it is cool. The 
bright green grass on the banks of the brook bends slightly down 
to it as it flows ever onward. The branches of the stately pines 
bend and sway as the breezes pass over them. It almost seems 
as if the twittering of the birds and the rippling of the brook 
could lull one to sleep. I close my eyes a moment and think how 
glad I am to be able to enjoy these beauties of nature. Who is 
this who so suddenly appears? It is a pretty young girl of six- 
teen, sitting on the bank of the brook, dabbling her feet into the 
brook's clear depths. She has on a green dress, the same shade 



60 GLEANINGS 



as the grass she is sitting on. Her arms and neck are bare, and 
her dark black hair falls loosely over her shoulders. In one of 
her hands she holds a pond-lily, while with the other she pulls the 
grasses from beside her, and lays them in her lap. She laughs 
now and then, a silvery laugh, which sounds like the birch tree 
rustling. Suddenly the pond-lily slips from her hand and falls 
into the brook. The maiden stoops over to recover her lost 
treasure, when, in doing so, she leans over too far, and alas ! she 
too falls into the brook. Behold ! everything before me vanishes, 
and instead appears a little cottage, before which an old fisherman 
sits mending a net. Out of the open door comes a young girl, 
bubbling and sparkling with laughter and merriment. I recognize 
her as the one I had seen sitting on the bank of the brook. 
"Undine, my child, come sit beside me," says the fisherman to her, 
as he makes room for her on his bench. But no, Undine does not 
want to, she runs laughing away over the fields and disappears 
into the distance. Soon the fisherman and his cottage fade away 
from my sight, and I find myself lying under the aged pine-tree 
in the forest, having dreamt about Undine, my favorite character 
in fiction. 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



Ten Minutes Spent in the Woods. 

What beautiful sounds I hear as I walk through these lovely 
woods ! I stand still a moment to listen. I hear the little brooklet 
babbling merrily. It seems to invite me to drink of its clear water 
and to throw myself into it this warm spring day. It is a tempta- 
tion to do so, but alas ! it is impossible. I hear the leaves of oak 
and birch trees rustling as a gentle breeze passes over them, I 
walk on a little, but stop again to listen to a little bird, calling to 



GLEANINGS 61 



his mate. He calls very anxiously, and as he does not hear his 
mate, he calls again. Soon as he finds that his mate does not 
answer, he decides that she has gone somewhere, so off he flies. 
As I walk on I come to some pine trees. They are whispering to 
each other. Above them are crows, cawing loudly. As I go on 
I hear the crackle of dry twigs on the pine needles, as I tread on 
them. Oh ! what is that I hear, breaking through the stillness of 
the forest? It is a songster, proudly singing his early spring 
song. How clearly he sings it to his audience, the babbling brook, 
the whispering pines and the rustling leaves. Perhaps the pine 
trees are whispering about his song. How beautiful are all these 
sounds that I hear! How much pleasanter in the springtime are 
the sounds of Nature in the country than the noises of humanity 
in the city! 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



A Spring Picture. 

This afternoon I was out in the country, looking at a beautiful 
picture, I stood on a little hillock, with red sorrel around my 
feet, and red maples over my head. Looking away in the distance, 
I saw a pretty lake in which was reflected a quaint little red 
cottage, nestled under a weeping willow, with some apple trees in 
blossom near by. Beyond the lake were fields, green with new 
spring grass. Suddenly, on hearing a noise, I looked away from 
the beautiful picture, and saw a red automobile go whizzing by. 
How that automobile marred the pictui;^ ! Why should this arti- 
ficial thing come and spoil Nature's works of beauty? 



62 GLEANINGS 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



The York River at Sunset. 

The hot August afternoon is drawing to a close. It is high 
tide, and the water, which is quickly flowing out, nears the mouth 
of the river. Along the banks the meadows stretch away on one 
side, while on the other the silver birch-trees sway gently back 
and forth in the evening breeze. As twilight approaches, over the 
top of the distant horizon, the bright red sun sinks to rest. Slowly 
it falls, and the surrounding sky is colored a brilliant red, purple 
and yellow. The sand-flats along the river are a deep purple, and 
in the dark, moving water is reflected the brilliant coloring of the 
sky. Now and then a heron, uttering a shrill cry, uncanny amid 
the surrounding stillness, alights on the sand-flats. 

Along the shimmering river comes a light green canoe with 
one solitary occupant. The dip of his paddle and the ripple and 
splash of the water echo and re-echo along the silent river. How 
calm and peaceful is his beautiful face ! How the setting sun seems 
reflected in his gleaming eyes, and how gracefully he dips his 
paddle with a firm hand into the glistening water ! The boy with 
the attractive face, beautiful raven hair, and graceful figure, holds 
his paddle for an instant involuntarily in air. He reaches the 
wharf, he moors the canoe, to which so many happy memories 
cling. The sun sinks beneath the horizon, darkness comes on, 
and day is over. 



GLEANINGS 63 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



The Rose's Day. 

On a midsummer morn my petals, tinged with delicate pink, 
opened to meet the glorious sun, rising o'er the peaks of the 
surrounding mountains. 'Twas joy to be alive that day in the 
meadow on the mountain side, with song birds singing joyously 
and bees gathering honey. Each flitting butterfly and gauzy 
dragon-fly rested on my petals, then flew off to another flower. 
Day wore on, and Apollo drove his fiery chariot down behind the 
peaks. "Thou 'rt like unto a flower," came wafted across the 
meadow on the rising breeze, and turning on my stem, I beheld 
a blushing maiden walking by the side of a tall, manly youth. 
"E'en yonder rose," he said, when his song was at an end, **is 
dazzled by your fairness. Dearest, my heart o'erflows with love." 
Stooping, he plucked me, loveliest flower on the bush, and handed 
me to his companion. The girl's eyes met those of her lover. 

"Dear," she spoke Well, I was forgotten for awhile, but 

was soon placed in the hair of the maiden, who oft brings me 
forth from the book, where I lie pressed, as a reminder of that 
memorable day. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



Canoeing. 

What joy on a hot summer afternoon to paddle up the river in 
a light birch-bark canoe ! How smoothly and swiftly my bark 
glides over the calm, still water! Behind are the picturesque 



64 GLEANINGS 



wharves, in front the water, clear as crystal, and on either hand 
the green meadows. The only sounds are the lazy chirping of 
the grasshoppers, the distant tinkling of cow Tjells, and the dip of 
the paddle. A bend in the river is reached, and the canoe must 
be guided with care among the treacherous eddies and whirlpools. 
The river is again calm, it narrows, and on its bank pretty 
birches droop their silvery-green foliage down to the limpid water. 
The air is cooler, a gentle zephyr rustles the birch leaves, and the 
sky, pink, purple and orange, is reflected in the clear water. The 
sun, one mass of crimson, rests on the horizon. The mud-flats up 
the stream are light purple, and long-legged herons appear. They 
utter a weird cry, peculiarly appropriate to the heron, and flapping 
their wings, swoop into the air. Twilight deepens. I turn and 
drift slowly homeward with the flowing tide. How many happy 
hours have been spent in canoeing, my favorite amusement ! 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



In "Cleopatra." 

The courtyard of the white marble Temple of Isis, situated in 
Egypt, is visible to the audience, and, through a portal, the lonely 
desert is seen, stretching away under the scorching sun, with the 
outline of a gigantic pyramid on the horizon. Huge palms and 
tropical ferns are scattered on the parapets, and there is a mystical 
odor of incense, burned in honor of the deity, Isis. A door opens, 
and the majestic queen, Cleopatra, enters, robed in a white flowing 
garment. A dark cloud appears, and the palms wave gently, then 
more violently, on the rising breeze. The wind increases in 
strength and the sand on the desert gathers in clouds. Crash! 
The tempest is here. Clouds of sand sweep across the stage, the 
wind blows with renewed strength, Jove's thunderbolts are hurled 



GLEANINGS 65 



across the now darkened sky, and the lightning flashes light up 
the chaotic scene. Above the tremendous roar and tempest's 
blasts Cleopatra's clear voice is heard, calling on her native gods. 
Suddenly the tempest dies away, the palms wave gently as before, 
the desert is again calm, and I am left with the impression that 
this is the most wonderful scenic effect I ever beheld. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



My French Book. 

Late one Sunday afternoon I took a stroll over the old golf 
links, where the cows now pasture, with "Cyrano de Bergerac" 
under my arm. Although a warm day, 'twas cool up on the 
moors, that overlooked the harbor and whence a glimpse of the 
vast ocean might be seen in the distance. Four lazy cows stared 
at me wonderingly as I walked towards the little golf house, on 
the piazza of which I sat and looked for awhile at the view below. 
Then I became absorbed in the contents of the red leather book ; 
Roxane, Cyrano and Christian seem to stand vividly before me; 
I forgot the rugged moors with its grazing cows, the harbor and 
the sounding sea. 'Twas night and I seemed a witness at the 
balcony scene, where Roxane unconsciously gives her heart to the 
soul of Cyrano. Then the last scene when Cyrano tries to keep 
the knowledge of his wound from the woman he has for so long 
loved in secret. "Roxane, adieu, je vais mourir!" The glorious 
sun was setting in the west, the rippling waters reflected its bright 
rays, and 'twas time to say a reluctant "Adieu!" to "Cyrano de 
Bergerac," my favorite French play. 



66 GLEANINGS 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



"The Little Lame Prince/' 

How oft in childhood, on cold winter evenings, did I sit on a 
footstool by my mother's chair, before a roaring fire, listening 
intently to the reading of the book which always fascinated me, 
"The Little Lame Prince," by the author of "John Halifax, Gen- 
tleman." And, when I had learned to read, what happy hours 
did I spend, poring over the pages which told about poor little 
Prince Dolor. I never seemed to tire of the pathetic little story, 
which appealed to me whatever mood I was in, and which was 
my best friend during the measles, whooping-cough and chicken- 
pox. As the years rolled on, the book never lost its charm ; nay, 
the older I grew, the fonder I became of the story, the moral of 
which I had not discovered in earlier days. "The Little Lame 
Prince" with its dilapidated cover is still a constant companion, 
nor shall I ever be persuaded to procure a new copy of the book 
I like the best. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



My Summer Home. 

At the summit of a small hill stands a large brownish-grey 
house. In front the daisies, buttercups and long grasses nod in 
the breeze. On one side the cows and horses graze in the rocky 
pastures, beyond which a glimpse is caught of the harbor and 
swiftly flowing river. On the other side the meadows slope away 
toward the rustling pine-woods, and, behind, the "deep-voiced 



GLEANINGS 67 



neighboring ocean" is seen over the roof of the fragrant old hay- 
barn. Goats with their kids roam about ; hens with their chickens 
strut along; and cats with their kittens sleep contentedly under 
the spreading horse-chestnut tree, while a lively little brown calf 
tries to butt the passing dog with his tiny horns. Com, lettuce, 
tomatoes and cucumbers lie ripening in the sun, and in autumn 
delicious apples hang on the laden trees, tempting the passer-by 
to pluck and eat of the fruit, which brought the world so much 
trouble. How quickly the summer months fly past, and how 
sorry I am when vacation is over and it is time to say good-bye 
to the dear old farm! 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



Rowing, One of My Favorite Sports. 

It is a hot summer afternoon, as we get into our skifiF to row 
up the river and drift back with the tide. How smoothly our 
boat glides over the water ! As we go along we look up now and 
then to gaze at the scene we have just left. On one side stand 
the picturesque wharves, while on the other bank are some weath- 
er-beaten fishermen's cottages, before which play several young 
children. To the right and left of us stretch the green meadows, 
far away in the distance, with the hot sun beating down on them. 
As we turn a curve of the river, an old wooden drawbridge, under 
which the waters ripple and flow, forming eddies and whirlpools, 
comes into sight. The river becomes narrower, and on its banks 
are silvery birches. It is a temptation, not to be resisted, to lie 
down under their cool inviting shade, after the fatigue of rowing. 
After resting awhile, we get into our skiflf, and again take up our 
oars. The sky is illuminated with pink, purple and yellow, which 
colors are reflected in the cool, clear water. The brilliant sun 



68 GLEANINGS 



seems to rest on the horizon-line. The mud flats, farther on, 
appear a Hght purple, on which are some heron, each standing on 
one leg. As we come up to them, they utter a cry, peculiarly 
appropriate to the sunset hour. Soon, as only the rim of the sun 
can be seen, we turn our skif? and drift homeward. When I 
reach home I decide that the day has been one of the pleasantest 
I ever spent, enjoying one of my favorite sports, rowing. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



My Room in Summer. 

My room is very simple. The walls, on which there are a few 
pictures, are tinted a light fawn color. The floor is covered with 
a plain straw-matting. The furniture consists of a few old-fash- 
ioned chairs, a high posted bedstead, a bureau, and a bookcase. 
My most beautiful pictures are the lovely scenes from the win- 
dows. There is a spreading horse-chestnut tree, under which 
stands the old picturesque weather-beaten pump. In the back- 
ground is the old grey barn, under whose eaves the barn swallows 
love to build their nests and rear their young. From the other 
window a different view appears. Before me stretches the 
pasture, where the mare and her colt frolic and gambol, till when 
evening comes they stand patiently, waiting before the gate to be 
taken to the barn. Beyond the pastures, to the right, far away 
in the distance, is a thick pine-forest. Occasionally the crows fly 
over the topmost branches of the pines, uttering piercing screams 
as they pursue their onward course. To the left can be caught 
a glimpse of the light blue sea. Also beautiful sunsets can be seen 
from the windows. 



GLEANINGS 69 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



The Churchyard. 

The old churchyard is still and silent. Overhead are the ven- 
erable elms, whose tops sway in the breezes, seeming to whisper 
gently to those lying below. The dark green grass grows up im- 
heeded and covers the grey stones, whose writing time has effaced, 
and underneath which lie those long ago forgotten. Under the 
linden, a large boulder, placed there to prevent her spirit from 
frightening the peaceful inhabitants, marks the grave of a witch. 
There is but one new grave stone, which bears an inscription, 
name, date of birth — all but the date of death — of the old gray- 
headed man, who seems to belong to the past century, and who 
sits for hours gazing at the spot where he will soon rest in peace. 

A stone wall, gray from age, borders the churchyard. There 
was a debate at the town hall not long ago as to whether a new 
wall should be built around the graveyard. A feeble man arose 
and said, "Wal, I reckon that them what's out don't waiit to git 
in, and them that's in there can't git out, so whar's the use of a 
new stone wall?" His speech carried the day, and no new wall 
was built. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



My Queerest Dream. 

'Twas a cold, windy October afternoon, the high waves dashed 
against the cliffs, covering them with spray, and the tide came up 
higher and higher on the beach, on which I stood. Suddenly the 
wind increased in fury, the water rushed onward like a tidal 



70 GLEANINGS 



wave, and I seemed to be struggling up an almost vertical wall of 
rolling pebbles, to escape from the foaming sea. Onward came 
the angry waters, gaining upon me inch by inch. No headway 
could I make, no foothold could I gain among the slippery 
stones. Not a soul near ! Could I reach the large deserted house 
at the top of the wall? I strained every nerve for the ordeal. 
Ever onward came the resounding waves. There, up there, was 
Life, here Death. Clutching at the stones on hands and knees, I 
made my way toward the house. For a moment the waters re- 
ceded, and then, with redoubled fury, gained upon their prey. 
What a battle against waves and wind ! One step farther to 
reach the house. Would I slip? Below the seething flood, one 
step away my haven at last! Exhausted, I fell unconscious on 
the piazza, and awoke from a dream I have dreamt thrice. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



A Picturesque Garden. 

There is a little old red farmhouse in Maine, situated near the 
sea. The summer never seems complete unless a few minutes 
are spent in its most picturesque garden. The road leading to the 
house passes through beautiful shady pine-woods where silence 
reigns supreme, save for the occasional whirr of a partridge or 
the caw of a crow. Emerging from the wood a glimpse is caught 
of the blue water in the distance and the little farmhouse, nestled 
at the foot of a small hill. The low house is covered with trumpet- 
flowers and virginia-creepers. An old-fashioned gate opens into 
the garden, and over the doorway is a trellis on which red roses 
intertwine. 

The garden is at the height of its beauty in August when 
pinks, asters, pansies, heliotrope, poppies and mignonette grow 



GLEANINGS 71 

together in a tangle — for nature is its only gardener — of fragrance 
mingled with the salt breeze. In autumn also the garden is at- 
tractive when seeds hang ripe and leaves put on fall colors. How 
desolate must this secluded place be in winter when spray dashes 
high on cliff and rock! Many artists have come to paint this 
garden, and they always leave with a treasure on their canvases. 

Written at sixteen years of age. 

What My City Needs Most. 

It was a warm winter's day. The sun rose brightly on the 
melting snow, the sleigh-bells tinkled merrily as the horses flew 
over the ground with renewed vigor. Looking out of my window 
I saw a cart, in which were five men, standing by the roadside. 
Instead of shoveling snow, the men were smoking and conversing, 
but to my astonishment there was only one shovel for five men. 
One of the men soon condescended to throw one shovelful of 
snow into the cart, but his attention was immediately distracted 
by an automobile which had been "hauled up." So, for twenty 
minutes the city, which was paying for the work of five men, 
profited by but one shovelful of snow. Should the citizens pay 
taxes for loafers? Does not the city need better superintendents, 
and, as a result, would not the streets be kept in better condition? 

Written at sixteen years of age. 

A Scene in a Street Car. 

Some people think that our car fares are too high, but I saw 
an instance when I considered them very low. Last winter, as I 
was going out to the country, a woman, carrying a baby, came 
into the car. Two little girls, under five, followed her, holding 



72 GLEANINGS 



on to her skirts as though their lives depended on it. The con- 
ductor carried a market basket for her, and several brown paper 
bundles. A polite man gave his seat to the woman. As she sat 
down, the baby in her arms began to cry. A cracker, brought 
from the recesses of the market-basket, was stuffed into the 
baby's mouth. As the cracker had no effect on the howling infant, 
one of the children gave it a stick of candy, which appeased the 
baby. 

"Fares, please!" The woman began to fumble for her purse 
and^ as soon as she had found it, the baby began to cry again. 
The woman handed the conductor five cents and asked for a trans- 
fer. Two children, a baby, a woman, a market basket and three 
bundles went on one fare in two different cars ! 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



A Dog's Presence of Mind. 

"What a chump!" exclaimed my uncle, when he saw a little 
trembling puppy, undecided which way to turn, standing before 
him. From that day forth the dog was called Chump, but, after 
he had been named, we found that he ill deserved his title. He 
was faithful to us for twelve years, and did many commendable 
things, showing presence of mind, bravery and "spunkiness." 
Chump once saved the house, in the following way. Mamma 
was having a dinner-party, and Chump lay before the open fire 
in the library. Suddenly a plaintive whine was heard from the 
threshold of the dining-room, and Chump walked in. He was 
never allowed to be around at meal times, and Mamma was 
greatly astonished that he had broken the rule, for he was an 
obedient dog. After prolonging his stay, and seeing that no one 
paid any heed to his cries. Chump went up to Mamma and caught 



GLEANINGS 73 



hold of her gown. Mamma knew that something must be wrong, 
so she got up, and, following Chump, was led to the library. 
There on the floor was a burning log, that had rolled out of the 
fireplace! Chump received his due praise, and after that he 
always went around from fire to fire, and barked if anything was 
wrong. Thus Chump saved the house by his presence of mind. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 

Dared the "Boogie.'" 

(^A Recollection of Childhood.) 

What tender memories are awakened as we look back over our 
past childhood! How laughable and ludicrous so many of our 
acts appear ! We lived formerly in the country. Past one side of 
our house ran a steep lane, down which my brother, aged three, 
and I, two years his senior, were in the habit of coasting on a tri- 
cycle. For some unknown reason we both stood in mortal terror 
of all express and ash-men. Whenever a cart appeared, we ran 
and hid until the bundles had been delivered or the ashes removed. 
One day, after coasting down several times, we were at the foot 
of the hill, when an ash-cart was seen, looming up in the distance. 
Terror lent wings to our feet and we flew to the house, leaving 
the tricycle behind. Upon reaching the piazza, the thought 
entered my head, "The ash-men will take the tricycle." Pos- 
sessed with the thought of the possible robbery, I ran down the 
hill, almost tumbling headlong in my mad haste, secured the 
abandoned tricycle, and reached the house tired and out of breath 
before the cart had stopped. What a heroine I appeared in my 
brother's eyes! 



74 GLEANINGS 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



When Sambo Forgot. 

I am Sambo, a cocker-spaniel of prize- winning family. My 
first home was in the country, where there are fields, birds and 
lots of nice things. One day, the most eventful of my life, I 
went on a long walk with my mistress. We were walking along 
a strange road, when suddenly I saw a little fluffy thing, strutting 
about in a field. Thinking it an ordinary bird, I chased it, but 
it didn't vanish. The thing ran, I ran ; away we went, the thing 
ahead, round corners, over fences and back again. I thought I'd 
never catch it; the holes in the ground kept tripping me up. 
Finally, after a struggle, I caught the animal in my mouth. How 
good the soft, fluffy thing tasted! I suddenly remembered my 
mistress, I had forgotten during the chase. Thinking she would 
like a taste too, I hunted up and down the road and saw her at 
last going home. The screeching thing was heavy. I caught up 
and dropped it at my mistress' feet. But, instead of thanking me 
for all my trouble, she only scolded. Although I have often since 
chased strange birds, called chickens, I shall never forget my first 
chase. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



A Pencil Mania. 

When about seven years old, I was very fond of pencils of 
every description. Nothing delighted my heart so much as a 
present of a package of pencils or crayons. But instead of 
making use of them, I hoarded the pencils in a secret hiding place 



GLEANINGS 75 



until I had quite a collection. There were long, new ones, which 
bore no marks of use ; short ones, very much chewed at the ends ; 
medium-sized ones; slate pencils, from the size of Emmy Lou's 
stump to that presented to her by the undaunted Billy ; and crayons 
of every color of the rainbow. Many hours were spent gazing 
earnestly at the hoard, and each pencil was examined with minute 
care. Every one had its story; some told of tears shed over 
arithmetic, the study for which I never cared, others brought 
back to my memory happy summer days spent in crayoning some 
picture while drifting in a canoe, and still others reminded me of 
the donors of my favorite gift, I am ashamed to own that I still 
have a collection of pencils, hidden away in a drawer, a remem- 
brance of my childhood hobby. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



Bob and Bill. 

Conversation between Bob and Bill on their way home from 
school : 

Bob — Say, Bill, have yer writ yer composition fer tomorrow? 

Bill — Sure, it's a cinch. 

Bob — What d'yer write about? 

Bill — Oh! I writ about Washington. 

Bob — Well, what d'yer write about Washington? 

Bill — About the tea party he had on his back porch. (Bill 
seems mixed up about Washington and the Boston Tea Party.) 
What d'yer write ? 

Bob — Well, I told all about the Battle of Lexington, where the 
American Minute Men fought the British Hour Men. 

Bill (rather puzzled) — What happened? 



76 GLEANINGS 



Bob — Why, don't yer know? Lincoln freed the slaves. (Bob 
seems mixed up about the Revolution and the Civil War.) 
Bill — Say, we're all right, Bobby. 
Bob — You bet, we'll git bloomin' good marks on thim. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



A Red Necktie. 

"I'm so tired, hot and ennuyee," and Lucile installed herself in 
the comfortable arm-chair by the open window, looking out on 
the garden, to continue knitting the unfinished necktie. Who was 
to be the future owner of ' the red cravat ? Many of Lucile's 
admirers would have liked it, but — "Why did I quarrel with 
Francis?" she sighed. "Would that this might be a peace token, 
but he is at Harvard — ," and Lucile turned toward the blossoming 
garden. The apple trees emitted a fragrant odor, violets peeped 
up among bright green leaves, the sun shone, robins sang, and 
nature was happy. The fountain invited her to its plashing 
waters, the wisteria arbor to its cooling shade, but Lucile re- 
mained indoors, lost in thought. 

Up the gravel path came a youth, aged nineteen, with ruddy 
cheeks, light hair, high forehead, and a well shaped mouth and 
chin. He crossed the piazza, opened the door, and entered the 
library, where Lucile sat, her eyes on the garden, but her thoughts 
many miles away. 

"Lucile!" he cried. She turned suddenly. "Francis, forgive 
me!" She held out the unfinished cravat, and said, "Red for 
Harvard, and, let me say, red for reconciliation !" 



GLEANINGS 77 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



By Junior Prize. 

The rain came down in torrents, a grey mist covered the 
Charles and its green banks, the sky was overcast and the boister- 
ous March wind shook the tiny drops from the budding trees. 
What a dismal, dreary day, after the heart of "II Penseroso"! 
One could not go out, and the large pile of books, to be studied 
before night, was most discouraging. As I looked up, Sunday's 
Herald caught my eye. I glanced at the subject, "Story of a 

Red "; Virgil, Goethe, Racine and Burke received 

a humiliating fall, and I set to work at the essay. Soon the 
books were elevated from their degraded position, the rain was 
over, and lessons received my attention. A few weeks later I 
was greeted at the breakfast table with the information that I 
had earned my first dollar. " 'Tis an ill wind that blows nobody 
any good." 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



One Study Period. 

Ding ! Ding ! Ding ! Study period has begun, and I am late 
in arriving, having had a hard time to find my "carried-off-by- 
someone-by-mistake" pen, which means I mu&t stay in ten minutes 
at recess for penalty. Temperature 89 degrees. Am trying to 
finish a composition in French on Voltaire, which is due next 
period, and which should be 500 words in length. Have counted 
twice. Only 410. What can I say? My mind is full of inter- 



78 GLEANINGS 



esting anecdotes about other French writers, but what good are 
they to me now? Teacher leaves room. Suppressed giggles be- 
hind me. Ten minutes gone. Not another word written. Alarm 
clock goes off suddenly. Who's set it this time, I wonder? 
Fifteen! Balloon flies up, appearing from a desk. Twenty! 
I'm frantic. Music, or rather noise, is heard down stairs. The 
little girls are rehearsing French songs. Twenty-five! What 
shall I write? That racket below literally shakes the house. 
Thirty ! It's hopeless. Spitballs fly in my direction. Thirty-five ! 
Chair tips over with a crash. Forty! Teacher re-enters room. 
Rain of spitballs ceases. Ding! Study period over. Composi- 
tion still unfinished. All up with me. 



Written at sixteen years of age. 



The Day I Lost My Balance. 

It was a bright September morning several years ago, an ideal 
day for a row in the harbor. I started out with a friend to get 
the rowboat, whose rope was attached to the stone pier. The 
tide was low, but after hauling the boat to the wharf, my friend 
managed to jump in, stepping in the crevices between the rocks. 
Then, when it was my turn to leap, my friend held on to the pier 
while I carefully stepped in the crevices, holding meanwhile to 
the projecting board for support. The board, which I thought 
steady, suddenly gave way. I lost my balance and down I 
flopped on to one side of our craft. Our combined weights were 
too much, the boat filled, and overboard we went. Down! down 
into the cold water. I was wondering if I should ever touch 
bottom, and whether we should attempt to climb up the pier or 
swim ashore, when I found we were only up to our necks. We 
waded ashore amid mud and crabs, and went dripping home to 



GLEANINGS 79 

our respective houses. My cousin, whom I was visiting, much 
amused at my "drowned-rat" appearance, still teases me about 
the day I fell overboard. 

Written at sixteen years of age. 

Excerpts from My Diary. 

June 13th. 

I've finished the "Goldsmith" ; now for the essay on his char- 
acter. I often wonder if illustrious men can look down on us, 
or rather some of them look up, and see us writing, thinking and 
talking about them, or reading or playing their compositions. 

September 14th. 

Went on a six mile walk with in the morning. He 

got me a huge bunch of pond-lilies. I counted forty-six grass- 
hoppers in my skirts, when I got home, from a field which we 
crossed. 

October 3rd. 

Left dear, darling Seabury (Maine) on the 9:52 train, with 
a very reluctant heart. What a pity to leave when all the leaves 
on the trees are turning orange, purple and red, and when the 
sky is so clear and blue, and the water so sparkling and sunny. 
Nature is indeed beautiful ! Where can it be more appreciated 
than at Seabury? 

October 31st. 

What is the use of keeping a diary? I use to beheve in it, but. 
now — . "All the world's a stage." The curtain rises, and All 
Wrong enters, the wrong words are uttered. A hiss from the 
gallery. He must leave the stage without applause and with a 
broken heart. 



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Stories 



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GLEANINGS 83 



Written at eleven years of age. 



Gretel's Christmas. 

Gretel sat on a little wooden stool before the hearth, where no 
fire burned. It was Christmas eve, but what a dreary one! 
Gretel thought of the happy times she used to have in good old 
Holland, where rich and poor alike put their little candles out 
of the windows, waiting for Christ to come and fill their wooden 
shoes. No! In America they did not do that, only the rich 
could have pleasures on Christmas, and the poor must go without. 
Gretel also thought of her dear grandfather, who used to take 
her to Mass every Sunday, where she would say her little prayer 
to Jesus. At the thought Gretel burst into tears. Soon her step- 
mother would come and beat Gretel for not having supper ready. 
Oh! that cruel step-mother! How could her father have mar- 
ried such a wicked person? Gretel thought of her dear mother, 
who had been laid in the dark earth just a year ago that night. 
Her mother's last words to her husband had been, "Take good 
care of little Gretel, and make her grow up a good woman." 
But her father had not been faithful ; he had brought Gretel to 
America and married this wicked woman. He no longer cared 
for little Gretel ; he cared only for drink. Here in America there 
were no windmills, no kind people, and no meadows, where one 
could romp and play; here there was nothing but dirty, dingy 
houses and crowded streets. 

As Gretel looked steadily at the old ashes in the fireplace a 
flame suddenly sprung up from them, and the fireplace was no 
longer small, but became as large as those in Holland. By the 
hearth were two little wooden shoes, and Gretel was no longer 
by herself in the step-mother's house, but was at home in Holland, 
surrounded by her dear people. Her mother was there once 



84 GLEANINGS 

more, her father, and dear grandfather in his old arm-chair. How 
happy she was ! Yes, she, Gretel, was actually happy, which she 
had no-t been since she came to America in the horrid ship that had 
made her so sick. Gretel looked around the room, and saw her 
playmates, romping and playing games. She jumped up from her 
little chair, and ran and played with her friends. How glad she 
was to be with them again and how happy they were to have 
Gretel with them once more. Soon it was time for the friends to 
go home, and Gretel went down to the door with them, kissing 
each in turn. Then, coming upstairs, she climbed into her bed 
in her own little room, with the clean muslin curtains at the 
windows and the pretty red roses on the walls. Oh! how snug 
and comfortable she felt in her cozy bed, while the wind roared 
around the house, and whistled down the great chimney! 

Suddenly Gretel opened her eyes and found that she was not 
in Holland, but in America in her step-mother's house. All had 
vanished into thin air; her little room with its pretty muslin cur- 
tains and the dear old-fashioned fireplace was no longer there. 
All had disappeared! She was on the wooden stool in the cold, 
dismal room, with the wind whistling through the cracks in the 
wall. Gretel was back again in real life. She found that it was 
morning, and she had been dreaming. The door of the room 
opened, and in walked not her step-mother, but a beautiful lady, 
who, coming up to Gretel, said, in a musical voice, "My child, you 
are going to come home with me, and stay with my two little 
girls always. Your step-mother was run over this morning by 
a heavy cart, and killed, and your father was found intoxicated 
on my steps last evening." Gretel was too surprised to speak, 
but the kind lady handed her a pretty brown coat and hat, which 
Gretel put on. 

The kind lady took Gretel home, where she stayed forever, help- 
ing with the housework. The lady had two little girls of Gretel's 
age. In the evening of this memorable Christmas day, the chil- 
dren were led to a brilliantly lighted room, in the middle of which 
stood a gorgeous Christmas tree, with presents for everyone. 



GLEANINGS 85 



Written at twelve years of age. 



The Skipper's Dream. 

Chapter I. 

Old Skipper Donnell sat among the rocks by the sea-shore, 
smoking his pipe after the day's work. He looked out to sea, 
and saw the little sail-boats dancing over the sparkling waves, 
and thought how treacherous those waves could be. Long ago he 
had a little girl with eyes as blue as the corn-flower and cheeks 
like roses. How dearly the old skipper had loved his only child ! 
Once he took her with him on a fishing voyage. O, sad fate! 
When the schooner was out at sea a storm arose, and tossed the 
ship from side to side. His little girl, running onto the deck, was 
caught by a large wave and swept away. That was the last he 
had seen of her. How he had lamented her loss! The skipper 
sat dreamily taking a whiff at his pipe every few moments. 

Chapter H. 

Skipper Donnell was greatly surprised to find that everything 
about him had suddenly turned green. Above him he saw the 
moon, reflected on the rippling water. Where could he be ? Yes, 
he was down in the depths of the sea. How cool the dark green 
water felt and how soothing was the lapping of the waves above 
his head. What was that object coming in sight? The figure ap- 
proached, followed by many others like it. As they came nearer 
the skipper saw that they were children, but, instead of legs and 
feet, they had tails of fishes and wore silvery scales instead of 
clothes. The old skipper had heard such things called mer- 
maids. Nearer and nearer they came, but they did not notice 
him, nor indeed did they see him. They seemed to be bearing a 



86 GLEANINGS 



certain object. Going up to them, the skipper saw it was a sleep- 
ing child, with rosy lips and cheeks. Her hair fell about her face 
in golden curls. 

Chapter III. 

Suddenly Skipper Donnell turned and found himself by the 
seashore, the moon and the stars above him, the sea before him, 
and the grey rocks about him. He got up, and, going home, told 
his wife of his strange adventure with the mermaids. To this 
day he is undecided as to whether it was a dream or really true. 



Written at twelve years of age. 



Self-Sacrifice. 

(Written after reading "Hans Brinker") 

The country of Holland is below the level of the sea, therefore 
the inhabitants have built dikes to prevent the water from 
flooding the land. Once long ago in Holland, there lived a little 
boy. One afternoon, when he was eight years old, he asked his 
father if he could go and take some cakes to a blind man, who 
lived far from his home. He received his father's consent and 
off he started. As soon as he had given the cakes to the blind 
man he started to return home. Soon he perceived that night was 
coming on, so he hurried along as fast as he could. Suddenly he 
heard a noise. What could it be? He looked down on the dike, 
and saw a little stream of water, trickling from a tiny hole. If 
this water were left to run out very long, the hole would become 
larger and larger, until the whole country of Holland would be 
flooded. The little boy, although so young, knew what might 
happen if this hole were left. He did not even wait to get stones 
and sticks, with which to stop up the hole, but he stuffed his fat 



GLEANINGS 87 

little finger into it. He called for help, but, alas! no one heard 
him. He shouted and shouted, but he soon found that his calling 
was in vain, for no one was within hearing distance. After a 
while the little boy's hand became very numb, but every time he 
took his finger away, the water gushed out so strongly that he 
resolved to keep his finger there, even unto death. What a weary 
night he spent. Would he ever be in such pain again? He felt 
as if knives were sticking into his arm. At last, in the early 
morning, when a clergyman was coming from the house of a sick 
person, he heard groaning and cries of pain and anguish. Look- 
ing down, he saw there a small boy with his finger stuck into a 
hole in the dike. 

"What are you doing there?" the clergyman asked. 

"Holding back the water from flooding our country," was the 
reply. "Tell them to come quickly." 

The clergyman ran and got some people; the hole was stuffed 
up, and the little boy was carried home, having saved Holland 
from a sad disaster. Is not this an incident of self-sacrifice? 



Written at fourteen years of age. 



A Leaf from a Diary, 

I am not a man of letters, neither am I an untruthful man, but, 
as I read over the following words that I have written, it seems 
to me that they are as far from being true as "The Adventures 
of Baron Munchausen." 

Last night I took my lighted candle up the stairs of my Cam- 
bridge residence. When I awoke this morning how changed was 
everything! As usual, I heard the twittering of the birds, but 
mingled with it was a strange sound that I had never heard 
before, resembling a fog horn. I dressed myself hurriedly, and 



88 GLEANINGS 



went down to the ground floor. There I saw a strange man, with 
his mouth up to the wall, speaking. I thought that he must be 
crazy, and I asked him what he was doing. He seemed very 
much surprised to see me, and replied that he was telephoning. 
What that meant I could not perceive, but I asked him whom he 
was talking to. 

"To Mr. Campbell of New York," he replied. 

"Why, Charles Campbell is an old friend of mine, but how 
can you speak to New York from Cambridge? How do you 
speak through the wall?" I asked. 

"Mr. Charles Campbell died almost one hundred years ago. I 
am talking to his grandson, or rather I expect to be in a minute. 
If you do not know what a telephone is, you must, I think, be 
very stupid. But what are you doing in my house and in that 
strange costume? 

"How dare you speak to me thus?" I asked. "This is my 
house, and I hope you will have the goodness to allow me to live 
in it, and to wear what I please." With that I walked away to 
the front door. He stared at me as if he thought me a lunatic. 
On the way I found many changes since last night. On top of the 
stair-case was a thing, that looked like a lantern, hanging up, and 
all around me were unfamiliar and strange pieces of furniture. 
I touched myself to make sure that I was not dreaming. No, I 
could not be dreaming for I was there. I thought I must be 
either sick or crazy. I opened the front door, to see if the cool 
morning air would make me come to myself again. There new 
wonders greeted my astonished eyes! The road that yesterday 
had been so narrow, with nothing on it but pleasure carriages, 
was now wide and full of large things that went along by them- 
selves on tracks, with poles on their tops attached to a wire. They 
were crowded with people, who sat on seats or on top of each 
other. And the people ! Instead of wearing silk waistcoats, velvet 
clothes, lace cuffs and stocks, knee-breeches, three-cornered hats. 



GLEANINGS 89 



powdered wigs, and shoes with buckles, the men wore coarse 
black or blue clothes, long trousers, slouched hats, plain waist- 
coats, and laced boots. And the women! Instead of wearing 
beautiful frocks and high heeled slippers, and hats with graceful 
feathers, were dressed almost like the men! ! Another thing 
which astonished me greatly was that there were vehicles that 
moved without horses. The trees that only yesterday were ten feet 
tall had suddenly grown in one night to enormous giants. "Is it 
possible that such a miracle could be performed ?" I asked myself. 
I thought once more that I was dreaming, but, no, I touched my- 
self again, and found as before that I was awake. All around 
me everything had changed. I looked out for a little while in a 
daze, when suddenly a machine, having two wheels, and making 
a chugging noise, with a man sitting on it, came dashing past at a 
reckless speed. What could this wonderful thing be? 

I thought that I had better go to my office down town, so I ran 
upstairs to get my hat. When I got it I went out and more won- 
ders awaited me. Along the side of the streets were rows of posts 
with glassy things on top of them. As I saw no stage coach to 
get into to go to Boston, I decided to walk. As I went along, all 
the people jeered at me and called me "The Man of a Hundred 
Years Ago." Very soon I came to a bridge, which was differ- 
ent from the one that had been there before. I was very much 
astonished at seeing it, and thought I must be on the wrong 
street. By this time a crowd had gathered around me, pushing- 
and jamming each other. They yelled and jeered at me so loudly 
that I was obliged to put my fingers up to my ears, so that they 
would not make me deaf. If I had been on the wrong street, to 
turn back would have been impossible. In getting into Boston 
how changed was everything! What yesterday had been water, 
was now all solid earth covered with buildings, that seemed to 
reach to the sky. I walked over this ground, thinking every minute 
that it would sink down beneath me. I soon came to the place 



90 GLEANINGS 



where my office had been yesterday. I pulled out the key from 
my pocket, and put it to the lock, but it did not fit. On looking 
up to see if my office had changed, I saw that it was no longer 
made of wood, but of brick, and had grown eight stories since yes- 
terday. I fell down unconscious and the last sensation I had was 
that of being jolted over the pavements in a cart, having a gong, 
one man holding my pulse, while another whipped the horse. I 
was later taken home, and, as soon as I came to myself, I wrote 
the preceding words. , 



Written at fifteen years of age. 



YouTH''s Pleasures Are Fleeting. 

Chapter I. 

He was nineteen and good-looking, yes, very, but what was it 
that made him so attractive, that fascinated all? His forehead 
was high, and its lines showed that he was fond of 
philosophy and that he was given to deep thought and medi- 
tation. The hair, which covered his well shaped head, was 
raven black, and, although not curly, was of striking beauty. But 
those eyes ! How can they be described ? Let one but look into 
those liquid depths, the mirrors of the soul, and love, first love, 
will dawn upon the gazer. How different from others were those 
eyes ! He talked by their magic power, and each moment he en- 
tangled his listener more and more in the irrevocable spell, which 
he cast. His life at college did not ruin him, for his will was un- 
conquerable, and his character was of the strength of iron. His 
influence on his fellow students was marked, for he gained the 
love and respect, as well as the admiration, of all. 



GLEANINGS 91 



Chapter II. 

Two years have fled. The languorous August afternoon drags 
on. Summer vacation is almost over, and the sea, the beach, and 
all the many attractions of the Maine coast will soon have fled. 
But his mind will ever retain those happy moments so joyously 
spent. 

Along the path, leading to the cove, comes the same boy, now 
a man. His cheeks are ruddy with the glow of youth and his 
thoughtful eyes sparkle with pleasure and happiness, for at his 
side walks a slender girl, whose face is indescribably beautiful, 
and whose dark eyes are strangely contrasted with her wealth of 
golden hair. A dangerous Southern beauty ! Yes ! The power 
of love is felt in the green fields, stretching away on either hand, 
in the deep blue sea in the distance, in the monotonous croak of the 
frogs from the lily-pond, and in the sweet refrains of the song- 
birds. No word is spoken until the cove, with its weeping willows, 
is reached. Wearied from their long walk among the pine-woods, 
they sit in the shade under the protecting branches of the gigantic 
trees, the water dashing against the rocks before them, and the 
green pastures behind. 

"Dearest," he says, and the fountain of true love surges within 
the girl's heart, "you know what I wish to say to you. Darling, 
I love you, with all my heart and soul, words cannot tell how 
much. Will you, will you be mine?" 

Can it be possible that this is the same boy, who has hitherto 
been devoted to philosophy and thought ? At his words she rises. 
He can no longer resist the temptation. With violence he draws 
her to him. Like a child she lies with rapture in his protecting, 
loving arms, while he imprints kisses on her bare arms, her neck, 
her beautiful face and her hair. 

The birds sing, but their key-note is joy and thanksgiving, the 
sea rolls on, but its sounding waves contain the magic secret of 
love. 



92 GLEANINGS 

Chapter III. 

It is an August evening six years later; the shades of twilight 
are slowly deepening ; the birds fly away to rest, and the man, now 
advanced in years, sups with his beautiful wife beneath the 
spreading trees to the sound of Parisian music. What bliss on a 
hot night to look into each other's eyes, and forget in the happy, 
fleeting present, the bands playing "Plus d'Amour, plus de Roses," 
the reflections on the past, and dreams of the future! What 
place more charming to spend a married life than the gay capital 
of France? 

Soon after their return to America, a son is born to the two 
beloved, but it is not fated that they shall long enjoy happiness, 
for the lovely mother, with the pale cheeks, profusion of light 
hair, and delicate hands, is wasting away visibly day by day. She 
is soon laid to rest in the little cemetery with its silvery poplars, 
leaving behind her two loved ones, filled with the memory of a 
sweet harmonious life. Why do we mourn for those who are 
taken from us ; are they not happier in their celestial home ? 

Chapter IV. 

The boy, although like his father in strength of will, has the 
far-away look, which was in the mother's eyes; he thinks con- 
tinually, and loses himself in meditation. Day by day, father 
and son become dearer to each other. Day by day their mutual 
love increases, and He burns with a desire to revisit the home of 
His youth, the sunny plains of Maryland, where so many happy 
hours had been spent by Her side. They go, but the well known 
spots, awaking tender memories, only bring sorrow to both, and 
they long to go to Her. 

Spring is here, the boy, delicate as his mother, is no longer 
strong, and father and son realize they are not to remain long 
together. The sad day arrives, and the little son passes away to 
his mother. 



GLEANINGS 93 



The fresh, green leaves, summer flowers, and autumnal hues 
come and go. The father shows kindness to everyone, and man, 
woman and child love and respect him. Each day he visits the 
little grave in the cemetery, so peaceful and quiet. The leaves 
rustle in spring, and, in summer, roses and lilies-of-the-valley 
surround the little headstone. 

Chapter V. 

Autumn, with her gay though sad colors, has passed over the 
land, and winter comes, gently covering the earth with his peace- 
ful garment of snowflakes. 'Tis a cold, chilly day, the snow falls 
lightly and gently as along the deserted street slowly marches the 
funeral procession. The melody of Chopin's march is heard, and 
the mourners walk with bowed heads, lost in reverie. The body 
is lowered into the cold, damp earth, the words, "Well done, thou 
good and faithful servant !," are heard mingled with the moaning 
of the wind in the swaying pine-trees. But He has long ago 
joined his two beloved ones in Paradise, never to be separated 
from them. 

The wind still sighs, the mourners turn homewards, the snow- 
flakes fall silently, and night descends over all. 

Finis. 



Written at fifteen years of age. 



His Expensive Purchase. 

It was a sultry June day and, after lunching at the club, I 
strolled down the park. The sky with its dark clouds looked 
ominous of rain, which was sadly needed by the dusty grass and 



94 GLEANINGS 



thirsty flowers. As I passed by the Dead Letter Office an auction 
of mis-sent packages, which was going on inside, attracted my at- 
tention, and, as I had no prospects of amusement for the after- 
noon, I decided to try my luck. I therefore entered a large room, 
where an auctioneer stood high up on a pedestal, displaying a 
large bundle. 

"Ninety-five! Who'll give me a dollar?" I heard above the 
murmur of the assembled crowd. "Ninety-five cents, going. 
"Ninety-five cents, going. Will anyone give me a dollar? Nine- 
ty-five cents, gone !" And the hammer came down with a thump 
on the table. Whereupon the purchaser, rather an old man with 
dilapidated clothes and a gray wig, hobbled up to the table amid 
a death-like silence, paid for his bundle, and proceeded to undo 
it. The strings were carefully untied, the wrapping paper was 
removed, and a large white woolly dog was disclosed to view! 
Shouts of laughter from the on-lookers greeted the childish toy. 
With a sheepish look, the old man left the building with the dog 
under his arm. 

The next parcel, destined to be sold, was small, square, and 
neatly done up in white paper and string. 

"There must be something fine in this !" shouted the auctioneer, 
displaying the bundle on high. "Let's start it at three dollars. 
Who'll give me three ?" I stood in the back of the room, for all 
the chairs were occupied, but I was greatly interested in the pack- 
age for some unknown reason. 

"Three!" was heard from a woman sitting in a comer. She 
was veiled and spoke indistinctly, 

"Four !" I cried. 

"Five !" came from the young lady, ' 

"Five dollars. Will anyone give me six? Going for five," 

"Ten !" I cried, not wishing to be outdone, 

"Eighteen !" called back my fair opponent, 

"Going for eighteen ! Anyone give me twenty ?" 



GLEANINGS 95 



This was getting exciting. "Twenty," I cried, determined to 
procure the package at whatever cost. 

"Twenty! going. Who'll give me twenty-one? Going at 
twenty, going twenty, going — gone ! Gone for twenty dollars." 

How dejected my baffled opponent appeared. The hammer 
fell, resounding throughout the crowded room. I walked up and 
paid the money. Taking my treasure I hurried from the place, 
determined to be the object of neither ridicule nor envy, and to 
open it in my room in peace, in spite of the "open it !"s from many 
voices and of the furtive glance of the veiled maiden. 

It was beginning to rain, and, retracing my steps, I soon ar- 
rived at my lodgings before a downpour. The air was much 
cooler, chilly in fact. I entered my sitting room, up two flights, 
started a blazing fire in the large fireplace, lighted my pipe, in- 
stalled myself in a comfortable chair before the cheerful blaze, 
and proceeded to examine my purchase. 

"Twenty dollars," I mused. "I wonder what luck has brought 
me this trip." I looked at the package, three by five inches in 
size, turned it over and examined the address, which read, in 

printed handwriting, "Mr. Stewart Gordon, 63 Street, 

Washington, D. C." Stamped in one corner was "No such per- 
son here. Dead Letter Office." I seemed to recognize the printed 
handwriting, but whose was it? If only Helen were here she 
could surely tell. She could always make something out of 
nothing and unravel mysteries. How I longed to see her again. 
Only a few weeks more ! I was sure I had seen that writing be- 
fore somewhere, but where ? That was the question. I removed 
the outer wrapper with care and disclosed to view a small white 
box. Was it a scarf pin? I shook the box, and a queer noise 
like that of dried leaves was heard. I took off the cover. Heav- 
ens! What met my eye? Neatly placed in the box I saw two 
bunches of checkerberries and a sweet briar rose! How deli- 
cious was the fragrant odor which reminded me of the lovely 



96 GLEANINGS 



woods in which I had so often walked with Helen ! How dearly 
had I bought the few dried leaves ! Did they bring joy or sor- 
row? I looked into the flames, holding the box in my hand. I 
saw before me Helen and her refusal. There seemed to be some 
connection between Helen and the box of dried flowers. Could 
it be Helen's handwriting? I still loved Helen, although she 
never really cared for me. I once more saw her in the sailboat 
with me, her hair blown across her fair flushed face. I saw her 
playing tennis, I her opponent. 

"Jack," she seemed to say, "this will be a love set." 
Suddenly I was awakened from my reveries by a knock on the 
door. I started from my chair. All disappeared. Nothing re- 
mained but the box in my hand. As I opened the door, my land- 
lady thrust in a letter. I sat down again in my chair to read it. 
It had stopped raining, dusk had come, and by the dim light of 
departing day and the coals of the fire, I read the wedding an- 
nouncement of Helen Rice and Stewart Gordon. 

Ah ! I knew it all. The box was a remembrance of her happy 
days. Helen had never cared for me, and with one toss, the 
box, its contents and the announcement were caught by the dying 
embers, and left me with a heart pang, bought with twenty dol- 
lars. 



Written at fifteen years of age. 

When Eye Meets Eye. 

Chapter I. 

Conrad's Disappointment. 

Music and laughter floated in from the crowded ball-room, but 
here in the alcove it was cool; the refreshing December breeze 



GLEANINGS 97 



came wafted in at the open window and stirred the leaves of the 
palms. Under the palms, in opposite corners of the room, two 
sofas were ranged, on one of which sat a girl of about twenty. 
She was of striking beauty; her fresh rosy cheeks matched the 
rose bud in her light, fluffy hair, her eyes were of deep hazel 
brown, and there was a dimple on each side of her pearly 
white teeth. Frances Cambrai wore a princess dress of light blue 
silk, which showed to advantage her well shaped figure. 

"Frances," said her companion, Mr. Stuart Gilbert, a tall man 
with a handsome face and attractive eyes, *'let me get you an- 
other ice." He rose, and, as he left the alcove by the door leading 
to the dancers, a man of medium height entered it from the op- 
posite one. Frances looked up and her eyes met those of the 
stranger. Eye met eye only for an instant, but, like an electric 
shock, love arose with fervor in each heart. He passed through 
the small room and was gone. Conrad Winslow, twenty-five, and 
the only son of the rich banker, James Winslow, had up to now 
merely existed. More money than he could spend had made him 
blase, he had never cared for the society of women, and he had 
come to the Gillette's ball only because it was less boring than 
staying at home. For the first time he loved, and thought that 
perhaps after all life might be made worth while. He felt a 
strong desire to meet this fair stranger, to talk with her on the 
sofa in the dim light, under the spreading palm. He must get 
Charles Gillette to introduce him. But where was Charles? 
Conrad wandered through the now emptying rooms until he found 
Charles playing billiards. It was two o'clock, and, when they 
reached the alcove, Frances had left. Bitter disappointment filled 
Conrad's heart. 



98 GLEANINGS 



Chapter II. 

The Accident. 

Winter passed and spring came, without Conrad's seeing Fran- 
ces, whose stay in New York had been very short; but her 
image was not blotted from Conrad's memory. Conrad stayed 
with his family at Newport, but during the summer he found his 
way to Maine. 

Summer found the Cambrais at their seashore house at York 
Harbor, Maine. Frances' days were passed in tennis, bathing, 
driving, riding, or canoeing on the picturesque river. Dances, 
teas and picnics also occupied Frances' attention, but she pre- 
ferred above all to ride her stalwart horse, Phoebus, alone. It 
was a warm August afternoon, and Frances started out with 
Phoebus. Along the shaded pine-tree road, with the blue sea in 
the distance, she trotted, when suddenly a large automobile ap- 
peared around a turn in the road. Phoebus, frightened by the 
large car, reared suddenly on his hind legs and threw his 
mistress, who was a good horse-woman but unaccustomed to 
such actions from trustworthy Phoebus. Frances was thrown 
with force on the grass by the side of the road. When the in- 
telligent animal saw there was no cause for fear, and what the 
consequence of his terror had been, he was troubled. He was in 
the act of sniffing his mistress' dress, when a youth, having 
recognized Frances, leaped from the car, got some water from a 
neighboring spring, and, dashing it in her face, helped her to soon 
recover consciousness. Phoebus was led home by the chauffeur, 
Frances returned home in the motor car, and from that time on 
Conrad and Frances became firm friends. 



GLEANINGS 99 

Chapter III. 
Lovers' Cove. 

Along the sparkling river came drifting a green canoe with two 
occupants. One was a handsome man with raven black hair, 
deep-set shiny eyes, a well-shaped nose, and a mouth and face on 
which happiness beamed; the other, a pretty girl, with ruddy 
cheeks, arrayed in white muslin. It was warm and they 
kept along the bank until they reached a shady cove, into which 
they paddled. The banks of the cove were edged with silver 
birch-trees, which were reflected in the limpid water, and, at the 
end of the small indentation was a white birch bridge, under 
which the water flowed down in a gentle stream among some dark 
green ferns. 

"Frances," he cried with fervor, "you know what I have 
wished for so long to say to you. Dearest ! I love you with all 
my heart; mere words cannot tell how great my love — " 

"Conrad," she interrupted, "why do you? My soul has been 
filled with your image ever since I first saw you." 

"Will you, darling, will you be mine?" and he leaned forward 
and caught his beloved one in his arms. 

A faint "yes" is heard, eye meets eye, and lip meets lip in one 
sweet prolonged kiss. 



Written at fifteen years of age. 

Jack's Adventure at the Circus Parade. 

{A hoy from Way Down East is speaking.) 

As I had been good f er two whole days Ma, wishin' ter reward 
me, said she'd take me ter see de circus peerade. Fer weeks me 
an' me pal, Jim, had looked at de posters aroun' de shtreets whicht 



100 GLEANINGS 



pictured de finest tings, Der was a real live man from Borneo, 
dat's what Jim says ut said underneat', 'cause Jim 'e can read, 
an' a snake charmer woman, wot winds thim shlimy tings aroun' 
'er. " How dar'st she do ut ? Ain't she af eart dey'll shting 'er ?" 
says I ter Jim. But Jim said, "No!" an' 'e alius knows, 'cause 
Jim 'e's seven, an' me, I'm five. Dey 'ad all kins uv animuls 
an' ladies wot rid on horses on deyre toes, an' gents an' ladies 
wot shwing an' jump way up in de air, an' ever'tin shlick. 

Wal, 'twas a fine day, an' we shtarted off dressed ter kill, me in 
me new shailor shoot, wid pockuts, an' Ma, she wore a red hat, 
shtuck up on one en', an' a new green dress. Gosh ! but Ma wus 
shwell ! We soon gut inter de crowd an' I shtud up on a hydroant 
(dat's wot Jim calls ut) so's I could see good. Ma was shcart to 
deat' I wud fall, but I didunt, not me. I see de peanut man, so 
I gut down an' made Ma git me some peanuts an' pink lamonade, 
wot tastud like de shtuff Ma giv' de baby when it shqualls. Den I 
gat up agin on de hydroant. 

"A soun' ov trumpets bruk upon de air!" Dat's de firs' line 
uv a piece of pietry, wot Jim harangues, an' up de shtreet come de 
fun, 'eaded by lots uv big aliphants, wid people on top in fine cloe<5 
an' shpangly, an' cages uv animuls an' horsus an' gyraffes an' 
dunkays wid clowns on deyre backs. One clown shpecial tuk me 
fancy; 'e 'ad on a white shoot, wot shtuck out, cover' wid red 
shpots ,a big poke dunce-cap, like wot yer git in shnappers, an' a 
pig-tail out behin' wid a red ribband on de tip en' ! 'E was sittin' 
in a 'shpress cart, hitch' wid a shtring, an' pull' by a clown wot 
shat on de dunkay. 'Is face, de one in de cart, wus white all over, 
an' 'e 'peart so jolly dat I wanted ter up an' shpeak ter 'im. I 
tought I'd just see if Ma 'ad 'er eye on me, "Ah !" sez I to meself , 
for der wuz Missus Thorp wid 'er Bill, talkin' wid Ma. 

"Oh! yes," I 'card Ma say, "Jack 'e's such a good ickle chap, 
I never 'ave to look arter 'im, 'e shticks ter yer like a bur." 

"Oh yas," tought I, "now's me time," an' out inter de shtreet 



GLEANINGS 101 



I goes, pushin' troo de crowd uv mucks. Bump ! over de' 'shpress 
cart went. It 'it a shtone, an' out tumbl' de clown. 

"Hoi' on fellahs," sez 'e, an' perceivin' uv me,- "Hi ! kid, how'd 
yer like a ride? Git in! Giddap!" I didna have ter be bidded 
twice. But I didna like ut as much as I tought I wud, fer it was 
tumble bumpity, an' de mucks laugh' as we wint by, an' holler' 
out, "Willy boy !", but why dey hooted at me I couldna make out, 
I soon akst de clown, wot wus walkin' 'long side uv me, ter take 
me oud agin. 

"Are yer tired uv it so soon, young 'un?" sez 'e, but 'e tuk 
me out an' I went ter look fer me Ma. I shposed she'd shtill be 
talkin' wid Missus Thorp, but — where wus Ma anyhow? I gut 
back ter de place whar I seed her last, but she warn't thare. Gosh ! 
wha'd she tink she's doin' anyhow? Wha'd she gone off fur? 
Jiminy ! I didna know de way home, an' Pa wud give me de 
shlipper if I ever did git home, Durn it all ! 

"Say, little boy, have yer lost yer Ma?" an' a cop come up an' 
grab' me by me new shailor collar. Come here, yer little brat !" an' 
'e carried me ter whar I f oun' Ma, who was cryin' like a waterin' 
cart, wid every bloomin' person lookin' at 'er, an' de tears were 
makin' shpots on de green silk, an' de red hat all on de wrong eye. 

I made it all right on de way 'ome, an' Ma she says arterwards 
ter Pa, "Jack 'e's sich a nice little comforter. Lave de shlipper 
be fer dis trip." Pa 'e muttered sumtin' about "de durn cuss 
shpylt his Ma's new silk," an chuck de shlipper under de bed. 

Written at fifteen years of age. 

What the New Year Brought. 

What is love but a mingling of two hearts, sometimes for hap- 
piness and sometimes for grief? Why is it not conventional that 
we should outspeak our deeper feelings of affection for others ? 

One evening, in the Christmas holidays, two young people sat 



102 GLEANINGS 



studying in a cozy parlor, with the remains of a cheerful fire in 
the fireplace. But the blaze had now expired and the dying 
embers had almost gone out. Around the ruddy glow from the 
great lamp there seemed to be a homey air as they sat on opposite 
sides of the table. They were both studying Latin, but the boy, 
about sixteen, was involved in the intricacies of Virgil, while the 
girl, about fourteen, studied Ovid. 

The day had been cold, and the snow, that had fallen in the 
early morning, lay thick on the ground, and the cold sunset threw 
a frigid glare on the white earth. It was the last day of the old 
year, and, as they sat studying, their thoughts ran on the pleasure 
their vacation had afforded and on what a good time they had 
had together. Day after tomorrow school would commence again, 
their minds would again be ground down to lessons, and the boy 
would be back at boarding-school. But an end must come to 
everything, even vacations. Life must go on once more in the 
granite channels, wearing away, inch by inch, to the bed of the 
river. Time, which would bring them once more together. In 
school there is something to look forward to, the pleasure of 
seeing each other. "It is wanting what we have not that makes 
us paupers." How could anyone put his or her entire thoughts 
on Ovid and Virgil, writers of the past, when love, fresh, bloom- 
ing, young hope and love are alive in the hearts of two friends? 
They had always known each other, but not until the summer 
past had their minds awakened to the reality that there was more 
than friendship between them. 

Around the cozy little parlor shone a ruddy glow of warmth, 
more than terrestrial, and the dying embers again and again flick- 
ered up in a sudden flame and then died down again, like the 
many hopes and pleasures of youth, which please for the time 
being and then again are void. 

The old year was coming to an end, day after tomorrow their 
paths would separate. Ovid fell from the young girl's grasp, into 



GLEANINGS 103 



her lap, and leaning her elbow on the table and her head in her 
hand, she seemed to look farther than into her immediate sur- 
roundings. Not noticing her apparent dreaminess for some time, 
the boy kept on studying until he too thought of his career for 
the future. Next autumn he would enter Harvard. Would his 
college career be worthy of the girl opposite, dreaming day dreams 
of her ideal of boyhood, the one she loved? How he longed to 
embrace her delicate form, to feel her against him, her brown 
against his raven hair. 

Suddenly they were both awakened from their dreams by the 
book falling to the floor, and the girl arose from her seat and 
sat on the sofa nearby. 

"May I tell you, Florence dear, what I have long wanted to?" 
he murmured, and, rising, he sat by her side and took her small, 
fair hand in his rough, but loving one. He put one arm around her 
waist, and, drawing her near him, she looked up, their eyes met, 
and, bending his head, he kissed her pretty cheek. It was realized, 
the longing, anxious thought and desire of many weeks. A slight 
blush suffused the cheek of the maiden, and, prompted by a sud- 
den impulse, she threw her arms about his neck and their lips 
met in one long, loving kiss. All their dormant affections for 
each other were awakened at this moment of perfect bliss. Now 
was the time of all times to be happy. 

"I love you, Florence dear. Will you be mine?" fell from 
his lips. 

Twelve o'clock struck. The New Year was ushered in with 
happiness, for two hearts at least. 



104 GLEANINGS 



Written at fifteen years of age. 

Paloma. 

"Chirp, chirp," the canary bird sang monotonously, keeping 
time with the music and singing going on below in the luxurious 
parlor. "Oh ! that I had wings like a dove, to fly away — away." 
The sweet voice floated out on the evening breeze, and the dreamy 
eyes of the young girl at the piano were fixed on some object or 
other out of the window. The song was ended and the singer, 
a slim, graceful woman with black hair and sparkling eyes, still 
stood pensive by the piano, on whose keys the girl's hands still 
lingered. The canary had ceased its song, and mother and daugh- 
ter stood near each other in the gloaming amid the shadows gath- 
ering in the comfortable parlor, with its satin covered chairs, 
book-shelves, ornaments, etc. So near yet so far. The woman's 
thoughts were on the detailed past ; her life with her husband, her 
ennui of him, her wish for another life, the break between them, 
his dismissal by her, sixteen years ago, and her begging for the 
guardianship of their only child. The girl's mind built air castles 
for the future. She stood upon the moors she loved so much, 
away, far from New York City, alone with Nature and her roar- 
ing torrents, her babbling brooks, her bleak hills and downs. She, 
the girl, was no longer weak and sickly, but strong and well with 
brawny arms and well developed muscles. She wondered what 
had become of her father, the father she had but known when a 
baby. Her only recollection of him was a sun-burnt face, and 
strong protecting arms, and hair, dark in contrast with her own 
light brown curls, Paloma, her father had named her. 

'Twas already dusk when the two dreamers awoke from their 
reveries at the entrance of the maid. The lamp was lighted, and 
the only occupants of the luxurious house retired to dress for 



GLEANINGS 105 



dinner. There would be eight for dinner that evening, then 
opera later on. Mrs. Bourbon was beginning to tire of this hur- 
ried life; dinners, teas, lunches, operas, balls. Why had she sent 
away her husband? He was perhaps not such a bore after all. 
"Laissez-moi, Annette. Je vous appelerai plus tard," to the French 
maid, who had been picked up on their honeymoon in France. 
The French maid was dismissed to leave Mrs. Bourbon to her 
own thoughts and reveries. Why had she been so brusque and 
quick-tempered? For the first time Mrs. Bourbon repented the 
dismissal of her Jack. He had never cared for the social life in 
which she revelled. He loved to wander about in the country, 
and, at the death of his aged father, it had been at her request 
that they came to New York. Yes ! she had been left an orphan, 
poor and alone, with an elderly aunt, who later died, leaving her 
niece a fortune. Why did these thoughts come to her mind at 
this moment? Had she not once been a poor little girl? Why 
was she so unappreciative of Jack's goodness to her? Did he 
ever think of her, and remember her former love for him? How 
kindly had he left her their only child, his treasure, his darling. 
Not once in all these years had she heard of or from him. Per- 
chance he lived no longer. At the thought Mrs. Bourbon's heart 
began to beat more thrillingly. The door opened and Paloma 
entered, dressed in a pale lavender silk gown. Her bare neck 
needed no jewel for adornment. Her own fair beauty shone 
like a morning glory, but so pale and fragile was she that her 
mother seemed to see her as in a far-off dream, a sprite from 
another sphere. Paloma seemed often dreamy of late. Mrs. 
Bourbon wondered if her daughter were happy in this life of 
the metropolis. She had received marked attention, but her 
mother did not think that anyone had as yet stolen her daughter's 
little heart. No one had as yet turned her head. 

"Are you not yet dressed. Mother ?" spoke the sweet voice, and 
Paloma's beautiful eyes were turned full upon her mother. 



106 GLEANINGS 



"No, my child, but I will be soon. Ring the bell, dear heart." 

A few hours later found the little party after dinner. When 
the men joined the women later in the drawing-room, young Dr. 
Carter went up to Mrs. Bourbon. "Paloma is not as healthy- 
looking as she used to be, Lucile. This hot spring weather, com- 
ing so early, is too trying for her nerves. Give up Newport for 
this summer and take her abroad. I was talking with her confi- 
dentially a few days ago, and I learnt that she has ever longed 
to get into the woods and leave this city life. Why don't you 
take her to Brittany ? That seems to be an ideal spot." 

"As she came to me just now I thought she looked peaked. I 
believe I will take your advice, Percy." 

"Oh! Mrs. Bourbon — " said one of the guests, and the subject 

was for the moment dropped. 

***** 

'Twas a few months later in Brittany. Mrs. Bourbon and her 
daughter had stationed themselves at a small cottage by the 
shore. For the first time Paloma was blissfully happy. A very 
different life from the usual sojourn at Newport. Mrs. Bourbon 
also was beginning to enjoy the life, watching the fishermen and 
their boats as they came in and went out, and the wives and 
daughters mending the nets and sails. How strong, healthy and 
happy were all the homely fisher-folk ! She alone was mournful, 
mournful and sad, longing and pining for him, with whom she 
had for five years been happy before she began to tire of him. 
Where was he? Mrs. Bourbon pondered this question in her 
mind, hour after hour, as she roamed alone or with Paloma over 
the rough, bleak shores. 

Often Paloma went off for the morning or afternoon, without 
other companion or playmate, and came back to tell her poor 
mother tales of some fisher lad, with whom she had fallen into 
conversation on the beaches. To further friendship with the 
fisher-folk, Paloma would dress in their picturesque costume, so 



GLEANINGS 107 



different from her usual luxuriant gowns. They learned to love 
and watch for that happy face, the fisher-people. Each moping 
babe crowed with delight, boys left their tiny miniature crafts, 
girls their dolls, made from some bit of wreckage, and women 
their work, at the approach of Paloma, who ever had a sweet 
word and some comfort for all. The aged and infirm ceased to 
bewail their mournful lots, and cherished with delight each sprig, 
plant or book brought them by the thoughtful Paloma. 

One morn as Paloma wandered up and down the beach, col- 
lecting shells with some sons and daughters of the fishermen, 
she went near the great cliffs, at one side of the sandy shore. She 
felt that eyes were upon her, she knew not whose. Involuntarily 
she turned her own eyes upward, and met the gaze of a man above 
her on the cliffs. Paloma was strangely attracted by the man in 
fisher costume, with sunburnt, handsome, well-formed face, 
brawny arms and mystical, sparkling eyes. The fisherman, with 
dark curly hair, was looking at her with intent gaze. For the first 
time Paloma's heart beat furiously. She felt her very soul go out 
toward the stranger above her. With difficulty she dropped her 
eyes to the ground, picked up a stray shell, left her young com- 
panions, and walked quickly homewards. 

"Agnes, ma chere," she called to a fishermaiden on the other 
side of the beach. And when she had caught up to her, Paloma 
couldn't resist asking a few questions about the man on the rocks. 

"C'est un monsieu que nous appelons Oncle Johnson. II est 
venu ici il y a quatre ans et il demeure la-bas seul dans une cabane 
qui appartient a Mme. W. II peche toujours avec nous. II est 
revenu hier de la mer. Hier soir il m'a demande votre nom, car 
il vous a apergu sur la plage. II fut bien emu quand il a entendu 
votre nom." 

The information caused Paloma's heart to beat with renewed 
vigor. What had so attracted her in the strange man, in this 
strange land ? Her first impulse was to tell her mother about the 



108 GLEANINGS 



first man in whom she had been interested. But, on second 
thought, she beHeved her mother would perhaps only smile to 
learn that the sight of a strange fisherman could have so moved 
her, when the love of scores of admirers had not even disturbed 
the equilibrious beat of her heart. That night Paloma dreamt 
that she had sunk into a golden bowl of fire, the setting sun, which 
did not burn her, but which gave out intense heat. Farther and 
farther she sank into the fiery depths. It seemed as if she would 
never leave her position till Eternity, when, she felt some eyes, 
and happening to look up, she saw the eyes of the strange man, 
looking down from behind a rainbow of light, and two strong 
arms outstretched toward her. No face, no face. Only those 
fascinating eyes, glaring down lovingly and seeming to burn two 
great holes in her soul, — and those arms ! 

Mrs. Bourbon awoke at an early hour, from her terrible night- 
mare, with a start and a piercing cry. The Day of Judgment was 
at hand, and Mrs. Bourbon awaited patiently her turn to stand 
before the blazing Throne. At last 'twas time to enter the shin- 
ing palace, but, as she entered the Judgment Room, the song of 
angel-trumpets ceased, with bent head she walked with slow step 
toward the Throne of Grace. Towards her came her deserted 
husband, looking many years older than when she last saw him, 
arrayed in angel garb of spotless white. He smiled at her. With 
joy she put forth her hands to clasp him to her repentant heart. 
She could only touch his outer garment. Her fingers left a mark 
of black, like pitch. He faded away as she stretched forth her 
arms. Only the two spots of black were left. They seemed to 
move about in the air, onward toward the Throne at the end of 
the shining hall, where sat the Trinity, toward which she dared 
not turn her eyes. The two black spots turned into two terrible 
dark eyes, that burned and seemed to cut into her very soul! 
They pierced through her like fiery torches, although they were 
black, not red. She could stand it no longer. She screamed 



GLEANINGS 109 



aloud with great energy, and her cry sounded and resounded 
through the long, silent apartment. And still the eyes burnt her 
soul! 

The morning was rather foggy, but it cleared in the afternoon, 
and Paloma, arrayed in a spotless white costume, went out for a 
little walk along the shore, leaving Mrs. Bourbon at home. Along 
the bleak, rugged shore walked Paloma with measured tread. 
Only a few fisherman huts were scattered here and there by the 
sea, covered with white-caps. Further and further she walked, 
the image of the strange man always before her, and the dream 
of the night before always in her mind. After walking several 
miles Paloma seemed to walk almost unconsciously, the eyes and 
arms outstretched always before her. She knew not how many 
miles she walked, onward ever onward, over ground on which she 
had never before trodden. Down the steep cliffs she climbed, 
down onto the soft, sandy shore. The tide was far, far out, very, 
very low, and the sand stretched forth in miles before her. How 
lovely, how beautiful ! Paloma thought an instant of what she 
might be doing at Newport. She compared the two lives, and 
satisfactorily decided that this was by far the better. She longed 
to see her mother well again, but she did not seem inclined to stir 
forth from the house now, always brooding over, and thinking of 
the past. Paloma thought of the August heat now in Newport, 
and she took in long breaths, filling her lungs with the delicious sea 
air. 

The distant horizon was dotted with sail-boats and steamers 
plowing their way along the Breton shore, the snow-white foam 
in their wake. Alone without fear, Paloma walked on down toward 
the still receding tide. As she walked the sand became wetter and 
water oozed up between the tiny particles of mud. Her feet left 
deep indentations in the ooze, the water came up to her ankles at 
each step, before Paloma became aware that it was better to re- 
trace her course. The sea was still far from her, and her thoughts 



110 GLEANINGS 



were farther still. Sand-pipers chirped up and down the sand 
and reminded her of her tame canary. Swish! the water still 
came up around her. Paloma with difficulty extricated her leg 
from the sandy mud. She turned back, the sand covered one leg 
as far as her knee. Down she sank. She tried to go onward. 
Her feet stuck faster at each step. She looked and saw 
that the sand a few yards round about her shook like a thing 
afraid. 'Twas a quicksand! It flashed across her mind in one 
brief instant. Down her feet sank. They were both up to the 
knees now. Could she reach the firm sand ? No ! No one was in 
sight. In one moment her whole life flashed over her. What 
would her mother do without her? What good to scream? She 
was up to her waist. A cry, a shill piercing scream, rent the air 
and affrighted the little sand-pipers and wandering sea-gulls. 
How happy were all those birds! "Oh! that I had wings like a 
bird," thought the poor struggling girl. Another, another cry 
rent the air. No one to hear. Her waist was covered by the 
oozing sand. What a death! That of a beast or of a cow. 
Down, farther and farther down. She tried to clutch the sand 
around to gain a hold. In vain! No stick or bit of wreckage 
near. And the sand around shook, and the bright sun, almost 
setting, seemed to shine more brightly, a looker-on at her terrible 
misery. Another scream, despairing and prolonged, rang out 
across the beach. Paloma was held fast and firmly by the treach- 
erous sand. 

Farther down the sky came the sun. Paloma wondered if the 
sun would set before she would be completely swallowed up. 
"Who will be the first to disappear from the world, this cruel 
world?" thought Paloma. The sand had almost reached her 
shoulders, and the glorious sun had almost reached the horizon. 
The sun, the unmoved witness of so many deaths, the cold, chill 
ball of fire. The sky around the sun was tinged with orange, 
purple and crimson, the sails on the sea were touched with pink, 



GLEANINGS 111 



the sunset was reflected in the moving, rippling water, and the 
sands appeared a deep purple. A scream, a heart-rending cry. 
Paloma's mind worked like lightning. She remembered her dream 
of the night before. Perchance it was a sign of warning. There 
v/as the great blazing sun. Where were the eyes, those eyes, his 
eyes? The sand had almost mounted to her neck. What use to 
cry ? No one could hear her. No human habitation within a mile. 
Oh! What torture when she would feel her head going down 
under, inch by inch. With the sand up to her neck, and her dream 
ever in her mind, Paloma looked upward. At the end of the long 
beach, up on the moors, she saw the figure of a man. Joy, hope 
flashed across her, and sent thrills through her mind. Again and 
again she screamed. "Help! Help!" Thank God! The figure 
had seen, he had understood. Paloma bad been able to uncover 
her arms from the sand, and she held them upward. Nearer he 
came, he was running with all his strength. He picked up a bit 
of wreckage and held out the rope, which was in his grasp, the 
painter of a boat. Nearer and nearer he came. He had de- 
scended the clififs and was crossing the distance between Paloma 
and himself with great rapidity. With caution he stopped at a 
little distance from where she was sinking, and threw forth the 
rope. Paloma looked at him, at the outstretched arms. It was 
He! Her heart beat violently. She caught the rope, he pulled 
upward. She held on tighter. With all his strength he hauled 
at the strong rope, which held firm. All the weight came on her 
arms. They felt as if they would be pulled from their sockets. 
At last she felt herself, her body, being hauled from the terrible 
quicksand and dragged across it with great agility toward her 
rescuer. Her dream, her dream, kept flashing across her mind. 
That sun-burnt face, those eyes, those arms. So her dream, her 
dream had in part come true after all. She was out of danger! 
He rushed forward and picked her up from the sand. She could 
bear the strain no longer and was overcome by unconsciousness. 



112 GLEANINGS 



She knew nothing more till she awoke in her own bed at home, 
and, looking up, she saw her devoted mother bending over her, 
with eyes full of love and concern for her daughter. Paloma 
learned from her mother that she, Paloma, had been carried home 
by two fisherwomen, who told the tale of the man, who had made 
the rescue, and who had entrusted them to carry her home from 
where he had brought her, over a mile from the quicksand, he 
being exhausted. Mrs. Bourbon had learned the name of her 
daughter's rescuer and had resolved to go to his hut that very 
moment, and give gracious thanks and offer remuneration. 
Paloma did not wish her mother to venture forth unaccompanied 
after dusk, but Mrs. Bourbon, against the wishes of her daughter, 
whom she left in the care of her landlady, set forth. It was a 
bright moonlit night, and the high full moon was reflected in the 
great ocean water. The tiny stars twinkled and the waves beat 
as ever, as they will till Eternity, against the great cliffs. The 
cottage, for which Mrs. Bourbon was bound, was situated about 
a mile away, down by the sea in a hollow, surrounded by trees 
and vines, grape-vines covering the cottage walls. Mrs. Bourbon 
could see the smoke ascending from the chimney of the hut, toward 
which she was destined. She looked up at the smiling moon- 
maiden, when suddenly she saw a dark cloud flit across the moon, 
the sky darkened, the wind blew, and a storm seemed to spring 
up. Tiny drops of rain began to fall. Mrs. Bourbon pulled her 
wrap closer around her. 

At last the cottage was reached. Mrs. Bourbon knocked, but, 
receiving no reply, she opened the door by its latch. The sky had 
darkened and the moon was no longer visible. The room, into 
which Mrs. Bourbon stepped, was dark, save for the light thrown 
out by the driftwood fire in the great open fireplace. Before the 
fire, in an arm-chair, sat a fisherman, deep in thought. His eyes 
were fixed on the dying coals in the fireplace. The dreamer 
was so deep in meditation that he did not hear the entrance of 



GLEANINGS 113 



Mrs. Bourbon, who stood almost fascinated at the portal, her feet 
rooted to the ground. At one glance she took in the room with 
its contents, "too good for a mere fisherman," thought Mrs. 
Bourbon. A few chairs, a desk, a table covered with books, and 
a few rude pencil sketches adorned the apartment, and the door 
at the end of the room evidently led to a sleeping chamber beyond. 
A few nets and fishing and cooking utensils, also a small oil- 
stove, were stowed away in a comer. Altogether the room and 
its surroundings were neat and clean in comparison with the 
average fisher-hut. Suddenly the coals in the fire died down, 
one by one, till the room became quite darkened. The rain beat 
with fury against the walls and window-panes, and the winds 
howled and roared as though Aeolus himself were abroad. Mrs. 
Bourbon's tongue clave to the roof of her mouth, she knew not 
why, she dared not speak for some unknown reason. Her dream 
of the night before flashed across her, she seemed to be once 
more in the long, silent chamber. She dared not look toward the 
figure stooping forward in the chair. What attracted, what 
repelled her? With difficulty she looked toward the dreamer, 
who seemed almost asleep. At that moment he arose to get 
driftwood for the replenishing of the blaze. The room was quite 
dark, save for the glowing coals. One coal flickered forth an 
instant. Mrs. Bourbon lowered her eyes. The society woman, 
who had made so many conquests, lowered her gaze before this 
mere fisherman with the dark, curly hair. She did not see his 
face, but he saw hers. In an instant his attitude changed, he 
pulled himself together, moved away from the burning coals, 
pushed forth a chair toward her, into which she dropped, and, 
without putting driftwood on the fire, seated himself in a chair 
in the far corner of the room. Mrs. Bourbon looked toward 
him, and spoke. 

Something about the man in the corner seemed to fascinate her 
— she spoke in a trembling voice in English, she knew not why. 



114 GLEANINGS 



"I came to render thanks for the rescue of my Paloma, my only 
child, my treasure, the only remembrance left me of my — 
m-m-m-y husband. What can I do for you ? Speak ! What you 
ask for, whatever money can buy you, will be yours, only speak." 
Mrs. Bourbon lost entire control of herself, she was fascinated 
by the man in the corner, the rescuer of her daughter. Why 
would he not show her his face? It was probably like those of 
all the other fishermen, but, even then, why did he move into the 
corner so far away from her? For a moment there was silence. 
Mrs. Bourbon felt once more the oppressive stillness of the 
Judgment-Room. 

At last he spoke, not in French fisher-twang, which did not 
surprise Mrs. Bourbon, but in perfect English, "Madame, I have 
already been duly thanked for the rescue of Mile.; as you say, 
your angel. I have nothing, and yet my all, to wish for, but 
money cannot bring back that happiness to me." "What?" asked 
Mrs. Bourbon, more and more moved and thrilled, for some un- 
known reason. "It is," slowly in clear, distinct English, "it is my 

wife." Crash ! ! ! A terrible peal of thunder shook the 

very skies, and a sharp flash of lightning lit up the whole apart- 
ment. Mrs. Bourbon seized her opportunity, she looked full at 
the face of the fisherman, and then above him she saw a pencil 
portrait of herself, as she appeared many years ago in her wed- 
ding dress. An electric thrill shot through and through her. 
"Jack!" she cried, and the cry rang through the hut, and was 
heard above the noise of the storm. "O, Jack! it is you. I am 
Lucile, repentant and lonely, full of love, of love for you." Once 
again she lay in his arms as in the olden days. Once more she 
felt the beat of his heart. She cared not for the poor clothes and 
the surroundings. Her Jack was all that was before her, all the 
wide world seemed so far, far away. She had reached her 
Heaven. Here was Paradise. As each flash lighted up the room, 
Lucile looked up into her husband's eyes and read in them fer- 



GLEANINGS 115 



vent love, while, as he looked down into hers, he read there truth 
and repentance. Another crash, another lightning flash, and yet 
another! The door opened and, dripping with rain, Paloma 
stepped in, unheard by the two lovers. "Mother!" was heard. 
"Paloma!" spoke the man, whose face was lighted up by the 
flash. "I am your father!" With joy the girl ran to the arms 
of her restored father. One arm was about his wife and the 
other around his daughter. All were happy. The bird had 
found its haven of bliss, and looked up with delight into those 
lovely eyes. The storm raged on, and the rain beat down in 
torrents. " 'And then at last our bliss full and perfect is, but now 
begins,' " spoke the man. 



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